The Insidious Six
by Jesse Cullen
Summary: Sequel to my continuation fic, TESM. It's been two months since The Avengers defeated an alien race attacking NYC, and Peter Parker isn't enjoying the peace and quiet that comes with no longer being the city's only defender. When an alien organism binds itself to him, it sets off a chain of events that sees him facing his own demons, as well as new foes and old friends.
1. Mysterio

Q was used to scenes of pandemonium. It came with the territory of being a stage magician, after all. Once, he'd gotten an audience in Reno completely up in arms when he'd pretended that he couldn't reverse the "transformation" of one of the audience participators from a chimpanzee back to a human being. The lie had been intended to get them on the edge of their seats; to really play with their disbelief. Even though he'd "transformed" the woman back with ease, the panic-stricken gamblers hadn't been impressed.

The scene in the stadium behind him was nothing compared to that incident, however. Certainly the hundred-some socialites and their families and friends were just about as hoity-toity as the audiences Q had once entertained in casino's all over the continent. But the effect of his disappearing act had left them in a complete state of riotous panic.

At least once they'd realized what it was that their hired entertainment had disappeared with.

As he hurried down the empty, concrete lined corridor beneath the stadium stands, Q spared his hostage a sideways glance. He had to admit that the teenage girl was holding up quite well for having just been kidnapped. The her bleach blonde hair, stylishly pinned up for her birthday party, hadn't even fallen a lock out of place. She walked beside Q, keeping stride with him in spite of the handcuffs he'd immediately bound her with. And, in spite of the brisk pace Q was moving them along the maze of underground corridors with, the girl hadn't tripped once over the high heels that Q knew probably cost more than he was able to make in three months.

He wasn't going to hurt her. Not only would she be far more valuable alive, but Q just couldn't stomach the idea of killing an innocent person.

Anybody who got in the way of his escape, however...

Q turned them sharply as they rounded a bend in the corridor. All he needed to do was get them out through the maintenance exit and it would be a hop, skip and a jump to his getaway vehicle. From there, he would take to the remains of Harlem, and hide among the crooks that had collected in the place known as Hell's Kitchen. The derivative title the place had been given in the last several months was enough to make Q snort derisively.

Being nearly flattened by The Avengers' battle with whatever it was that had tried to attack New York City had given the section of the city a strange sense of entitled aggression. As much as people tried to help Hell's Kitchen, it had fallen into complete disarray weeks after the battle. Under any other circumstance, Q would have avoided that section of The Big Apple altogether. But among the makeshift shanty dwellings and the barely put-back-together apartment buildings Hell's Kitchen would be the perfect place to hide his hostage.

At least until the girl's mother and her political party paid him the ransom.

One half of the corridor was bathed in darkness. The lights had been broken by a party celebrating some idiotic sports team's win several nights previously. Q could just see the red glow of the exit symbol at the end of the hallway.

"Not too far now, sweetheart," Q said, tugging the girl forward again. Once again, her poise on the spindly high heels astounded him. Everything about her, from her dyed hair to the poofy pink Sweet Sixteen dress she wore set Q's anger on edge. But he tampered that anger. It wasn't this girl's fault that her idiotic senator of a mother had decided to come visiting New York City. Really when he thought about it, Q didn't know if the girl herself had suggested renting out Yankee Stadium for no other reason than to host a birthday party.

The girl said nothing, but huffed angrily as Q urged her along. Q glared sideways at her, and reached into the deep pockets of his long, black overcoat. He forced himself not to turn his irritation on his hostage, however. It wouldn't do good to get her screaming or yelling at him, not when they were this close to being to his mode of transport. In any case, he was saving his true potential for anybody who tried to interfere with his getaway.

However, he wasn't going to just let the little brat wear on his nerves, not after all that he was risking in taking her hostage in the first place. Q stopped, just in the middle of the hallway, and wrenched the girl around so that he was looking her dead in the face.

"I understand that you're used to people being at your beck and call in your every day life," he said darkly. "But need I remind you that you are not in a position of power at the moment. Far from it."

The girl rolled her eyes. With atypical teenage rebellion, she kept her gaze fixedly on the dark, concrete wall next to them. "Whatever," she said. It was a disaffected sigh, completely adolescent and belying her upper class entitlement. She wasn't afraid of him, in spite of the feat he'd pulled to get her on stage and right into the palm of his hand.

Q smiled acidly at the girl. Very well. If she thought that she wasn't in any danger, he would have to instill at least a modicum of fear in her. He reached behind his head with one gloved hand. The gloves, like his overcoat, were black, and went up to his elbow. They'd been a remnant from the first costume he'd over worn during his early days doing stage shows. Nostalgia kept him from parting with them, in spite of the ridicule it earned him.

In any case, the gloves were the least of his costume. He pulled the purple hood over his head, and then pressed on a small button sewn just under the overlarge lapel of his overcoat. He couldn't see the almost paper thin visor obscure his face. From his perspective, he was still looking at his hostage.

The girl's aloofness vanished a split second after Q's visor screened his face. It was an invention of his own, put together with spare, stolen technology from the multiple television shows and movies he'd worked on to pay the bills in the early days. It was a mask, outwardly showing a mirror-like surface. Via optical illusion, however, the surface of Q's visor tended to show various countenances the the observer, none of them pleasant.

And judging from the half-step she took away from him, Q's hostage hadn't seen anything at all pleasant reflected back in his mirror-like mask.

"That's better," Q said. He heard his voice in deep, menacing waver, just another effect of the screen-like mask. "Are you going to behave now?" The girl gulped, nodded and then fell into step behind Q as he took them quickly through the hallway. He did not lower his mask. He felt safer with it during the best of days, and in any case, all he had to do was turn to the girl if she gave lip again and she would be quelled.

At that moment, a thunder of footsteps hurtled down the corridor behind Q and his petrified hostage. Cursing, Q whirled around to face seven members of the police force. He quirked an eyebrow beneath the surface of his mirror-like mask. He hadn't been expecting the senator to go for security so quickly. But New York City was New York City, after all, and in the months following the extraterrestrial attack, the police force had been bumped up considerably. Whether this was out of a serious realization of their duty to protect or a petulant response to the fact that The Avengers and Spider-Man were making the NYPD look lazy was entirely up to debate.

The police fanned out, guns drawn. None of them lowered their weapons as they faced Q, but he could see the shock and fear in thier eyes as they took in whatever it was that the screen covering his face was choosing to show them.

"Give it up, Beck," the officer on point said after recovering from the shock.

Q smirked beneath his mask, and reached into the pockets of his trench coat. "How marvelous," he said. "My reputation seems to precede me."

"Hands where I can see them!" The officer shouted.

"Very well," Q replied. "It's your loss, really." And with that, he flung several small, glass spheres onto the ground at the feet of the battalion. The glass exploded outwards, peppering Q and his hostage with pellets of glass. Thick smoke, acidic purple and toxic green, filled the corridor. Safely hidden behind his mask, Q was completely unaffected by the stuff, but his hostage, and the group of police officers, began to cough violently. Without a second thought, Q seized the girl by the wrist and dragged her away from the scene and towards the exit.

Really, the smoke was the least of what he could do. But he still wasn't ready to pull out all the stops at this point. It was a common trope of his profession, after all. Don't let the audience see the more breathtaking tricks until they'd had their curiosity piqued by the more amateur illusions.

Q threw his shoulder into the exit door. Brilliant sunlit made the magician and his still sputtering, gasping hostage stop. After nearly ten minutes of running through dim corridors, the late-afternoon May sunshine was almost as blinding as a spotlight. Overhead, the blue sky was peppered with fluffy white clouds, more telling of high summer than late spring. It was a beautiful day, and if Q could make it across the North parking lot of the stadium to his getaway car then it would be all the more beautiful.

He yanked on the handcuffed girl, intending to pull her across the concrete towards the unassuming, dull green Beetle that was parked among the more expensive cars.

His hand felt thin air.

The girl was gone.

Grimacing, Q whirled around and felt irritation spike through him, mingled with the smallest feeling of satisfaction. He'd have been a fool to expect to get away easily without encountering one of New York City's idiotic, costumed superheroes.

Spider-Man was stuck at least ten feet above the ground on the outside of the stadium. In one arm, he cluthced Q's hostage; the girl's eyes were staring with wide-eyed, adoring relief at the wall-crawler, who was plainly looking at Q. The eyes of his mask prevented the magician from knowing just what it was that the hero was thinking, but for some reason Q knew that Spider-Man wasn't remotely afraid of whatever it was that he saw on the screen.

"Spider-Man," Q said coldly, fishing in the front of his trench coat again for another glass sphere.

"Fish-Bowl Face Man," the web-slinger replied in an equally cold voice.

Q's fingers curled in fury around one of the orbs remaining in his pocket. Years of performing for audiences should have made him immune to ridicule. In his earliest days of stage magic, he'd been booed out of dive bars and amateur comedy clubs more than once. But somehow, he could never seem to get over that feeling of stinging, cold rage that would tear through him whenever people didn't appreciate his considerable talent. He was the greatest stage magician in North America, and if Spider-Man didn't see that now, then he certainly would in a matter of seconds.

"Names are so trite, Spider-Man," Q said. "But if you really want to be polite, you may call me The Magnificent Mysterio." It was the stage name that Q had been operating under during his time in Nevada, and he thought that it had a nice, retro ring to it.

Spider-Man, however, merely snorted at the mention of it. The girl in his grip also let out a giggle at the mention.

Q glared at them. Very well. If they weren't going to be cowed by whatever they saw in his mask, then he would make them very afraid.

"Let's see how funny you think I am once you meet my friend," Q said coldly. Overhead, he could hear the dull chopping sound of the approaching police helicopter. He was wasting too much time and he wasn't going to let Spider-Man of all people delay the inevitable. With a cry of vindictive rage, Q threw one glass sphere just under the spot where Spider-Man was stuck to the wall of the stadium.

This orb was different from the smoke balls that he had thrown at the police. It was an invention of his own, and purely technological. Mainstream magicians would have scoffed at the idea of using science in their art, but Q was above such amateurs. After all, illusions did not necessarily have to be rely solely on the disbelief of an unwitting audience.

The second the sphere touched the concrete, an enormous, thirty foot king cobra erupted from it's depths. The creature uncoiled, it's crest flaring outwards as it turned its hypnotic gaze towards Spider-Man and the hostage. The snake stretched its jaw and let out a hiss. Spider-Man leaped out of the way as the cobra lunged at the wall. And Q, waiting just by the serpent's tail, was quick enough to throw several smoke orbs at the wall-crawler as he landed. Spider-Man let out a confused snarl, and loosened his grip on the hostage.

That was all the give that Q needed. Crawling low through he swirling, purple smoke, he seized the girl by the wrist, and dragged her to her feet.

"I hope you're not afraid of snakes, Spider-Man," Q said. The wall crawler whirled around. As quickly as he could, Q pressed another button beneath the lapel of his trenchcoat. Several copies of himself, all clutching the terrified hostage, appeared in a circle, surrounding Spider-Man and the towering cobra. The hero lunged at the once nearest, which flickered as he dove through it. "And now," Q said, "if you'll excuse me, I have a disappearing act to attend to."

And with that, the magician spun on his heel, and vanished, appearing seconds later within the confines of his car, the terrified teenage girl screaming and kicking as he flung her into the passenger seat.

* * *

"Well...I certainly wasn't expecting that," Spider-Man said as he sprung back to his feet and stared up at the towering king cobra above him. The snake swayed, staring down at him with its exaggeratedly evil eyes. The several copies of Mysterio and his hostage had vanished almost the second the web-slinger had attempted to tackle one of them _. Bloody illusionists_ , Spider-Man thought to himself. He jumped out of the way as the snake slashed its tail out at him.

He shot a web to the wall of the stadium, and swung as high as he could as the serpent began to bite and spit at him. Spider-Man had no idea just how in the world Mysterio had managed to pull a thirty foot snake out of his pocket, and at the moment it was the least of his worries. _Now I really wish I'd paid more attention to all those crappy Criss Angel shows_ , he thought as he surveyed the swaying cobra.

For a moment, the snake's eyes met his. Then it lunged again. Reeling in the reflex to automatically dive out of the way, Spider-Man held his ground until he saw the yellow of the reptile's eyes. Then he leapt as far as he could sideways. He'd expected the snake to collide withe side of the stadium, hoping to daze the beast in enough time to get a handle on the situation.

What he hadn't expected was for one third of the cobra's body to disappear into the side of the building as if it were made of nothing of pure air.

Spider-Man, perched on the side of the stadium, stared as the cobra extracted itself from the solid concrete as if nothing had happened.

"Oh, lovely," the wall-crawler sighed. "Another goddamn illusion." The cobra lunged at him once more, and Spider-Man took the opportunity to swing down to the parking lot below. The purple smoke was now nothing more than a fine, lingering mist. And through it, Spider-Man could see the glass orb that Mysterio had thrown from his pocket before the gigantic cobra had appeared.

The snake hissed loudly as it coiled around itself and attempted to once more swallow Spider-Man whole. Shaking his head, the web-slinger completely ignored the creature. He flung his wrist out, fired a web at the glass ball, and tugged it towards himself. He had a brief glimpse of several small apparatuses within the sphere. "It's a projector," Spider-Man said noncommittally as he shattered the orb onto the ground. A loud, mechanical hiss filled the air and the illusion of the cobra behind him sputtered several times before disappearing.

Spider-Man looked around and saw that Mysterio had gotten away in the few minutes since he'd sicced the fake cobra on him. Grimacing, the hero looked upwards, and saw three police helicopters hovering over a spot on the near highway.

 _Really_ , Spider-Man thought as he fired a web at the nearest chopper, _it's bad enough that this nut didn't even have the nads to face me directly. Now he's leading me and the NYPD on a car chase that he's got no chance of winning._ Somewhere in the part of his rational mind, Spider-Man knew that his anger was somewhat misplaced. It wasn't Mysterio's fault-well technically it was for having been a criminal in the first place-but it wasn't his fault that his amateur kidnapping stunt had been the high point of Spider-Man's entire month thus far.

Using the distance and speed that the police chopper was moving at, Spider-Man swung far from Yankee Stadium. The street below turned into a blur of grey concrete and multicolored cars as he went. It didn't take him long to find the car that Mysterio must have taken off in. There were at least six police cars pursuing a small, green, old fashioned Beetle, which was speeding down the oncoming lane of traffic.

 _What a ham_ , Spider-Man thought as he let go of his webbing and fell into a dive. Any kidnapper, at least the ones that the web-slinger was used to dealing with, would do their best to keep a low profile. Mysterio was clearly relishing the attention being paid to him, which didn't surprise Spider-Man in the least.

He landed on the top of the Beetle with a loud thud. A split second later he saw several glass orbs go flying out of the driver's side window. Quick as he could, Spider-Man caught them in rapidly fired lines of webbing. Then he shattered the rear passenger window and threw the orbs into the back seat. Purple and green smoke exploded in the confines of the car. For a moment, the vehicle wobbled from side to side before going into a flat out, careening spin. Deftly, Spider-Man leapt off of the Beetle, arching into the air and coming to land several hundred yards away from the out-of-control car.

Shaking his head, the hero fired several lines of webbing onto the hood of the Beetle and, working with momentum, managed pull the car out of it's spin. It banged against the guard rail, a little bit too hard for Spider-Man's liking. But it had come to a rest, circus-style smoke billowing out of the open front windows, and that was good enough for him. Spider-Man walked towards the car as the pursuing police force skidded to a halt around the vehicle.

A moment later, the front door opened, and Mysterio clambered out, his glass-like mask still concealing his face from beneath his purple hood. He'd somehow managed to drag the coughing, spluttering teenage hostage out with him, his arm pressed around her neck.

"You haven't won this, Spider-Man!" Mysterio crowed, ignoring the multiple guns now pointed at him. Whatever it was that Spider-Man hadn't won, the wall-crawler didn't wait around to find out. Nonchalantly, he fired a web at Mysterio's face and jerked him violently towards him. The hostage went tumbling from his arm, and sprawled to the concrete on her hands and knees. Before the magician could so much as squirm in protest, Spider-Man drew his fist back and punched him square in his mirroresque visor.

Spider-Man half expected the mask to shatter like glass, but it felt more like liquid in the split second it took for his knuckles to pass through it and connect with Mysterio's nose. The crook let out a groan, and collapsed to the ground. Shaking his head, Spider-Man stood over the fallen kidnapper as four police officers swarmed around him. One jerked the hood back from his face, revealing a smooth, bald head.

"Quinten Beck," said one of the officers as Mysterio was kicked unceremoniously onto his back.

"And he would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for that meddling Spider-Man," said the wall-crawler. Several of the officers let out hearty chuckles as they slapped Quinten Beck in handcuffs.

"Thanks a lot, Spidey.".

Spider-Man merely shrugged. "It was nothing," he said. And really, compared to the kind of chaos he was used to, chasing down Mysterio really was nothing.

A split second later, something collided with him. Surprise made him stagger sideways, and he looked down to see that the finely dressed girl Mysterio had taken hostage was now hugging him as if her life depended on it.

"Thank you!" She said, looking up at him with grateful eyes.

"Don't worry about it," Spider-Man said. The underwhelming feeling he'd felt during the entirety of the chase disappeared as he took in the relief on the girl's face. This was what he did it for, after all. Protecting those who couldn't protect themselves.

The girl relinquished her grip on his waist. "This was, like, so amazing!"

"I try."

"I mean, I was totally hoping that, like, maybe Iron Man would've come to save me. Or, like, maybe even Hawkeye because he's got, like, such a great fashion sense, but you're just as good." She looked around at the police officers, some of whom were grinning in barely concealed amusement. "Does anybody have a cell phone? I wanna take a picture for my Instagram account."

"And to that," Spider Man said, firing a web up high to one of the buildings that bordered the street, "an extreme goodbye." He pushed off the ground, somewhat harder than he meant too, his irritation returning with a vengeance.

 _It's your job_ , he reminded himself as he swung along the streets of The Bronx. _It is your job, and you should be damn grateful that you've got a little bit of help._ And yet, try as he might, he couldn't quite shake the feeling of annoyance that he felt whenever people brought up the recent arrival of The Avengers. The team had done the city a power of good, especially during the sudden attack by an alien race. But for some reason, people expected Iron Man and his team of heroes to be around for every kitten stuck up a tree, and that, as Spider-Man had learned in the two months since the alien attack on Harlem, was not what The Avengers were around for.

The Avengers were around to take care of the really, really big stuff. _And they just couldn't have been bothered to have tried to take on Doc Ock last Christmas_ , Spider-Man thought bitterly as he swung towards Broadway. In the wake of the mad doctor's attack, The Big Apple just hadn't been able to catch a break. And now that The Avengers had set their permanent residence where Stark Tower had once been, there were more heroes than ever to come to the aid of the city, and the world at large.

 _And what am I? Radioactively enhanced chopped liver_? Spider-Man thought wistfully as he went into a free fall. He'd been swinging through the streets of New York City since before Iron Man had been patrolling the skies. It was petulant and immature, but he always thought of New York City as his to protect in league with all the regular defenders of the city. The Avengers' presence wouldn't have stung so much if they'd just thought to reach out to him. And yet somehow, he felt as if they'd regulated him to some kind of amateur, spandex wearing member of the brute squad.

Unconsciously, Spider-Man swung past a large billboard that sat atop a building near Broadway. He paused, perching on the top of a street lamp so he could look at the image on the advertisement. It always helped calm him down whenever he got into funks like this. Out of all the billboards and massive posters heralding the shows on Broadway, this was his favorite. Blown up to gigantic size was the stunning face of one of the people who always brought him back down whenever he was in a foul mood. Her luxurious red hair had been brushed back, falling in an unkempt yet stylish curtain around her beautiful face. Stormy green eyes looked at him from across the street, giving him a look that, even in its composure, still seemed to be knowing.

"Yeah, yeah," he said with a small grin. "I know, MJ. 'Get your lips of the floor.'" It was exactly what she would say if she knew what he was thinking. And, as usual, he always conceded, because Mary Jane was always in the right whenever she talked him down from one of his more morose moods.

Today wasn't about him, in any case, as the billboard reminded him. It was about Mary Jane, and her opening night in a Broadway revival of _Lis Miserables_. Spider-Man had known just enough about the epic musical before MJ had landed the part to know that the role of Eponine was kind of a big deal. And, as he looked at the stylish text beneath MJ's face on the billboard, text that spelled out "Broadway's Newest Star-Mary Jane Watson", Spider-Man couldn't help but feel a rush of pride for the woman he loved.

 _It's not always about you, idiot_ , he reminded himself as he pushed off from the ledge and swung towards the Queensboro Bridge. He had a wonderful life, compared to most people. Especially compared to those who had been directly impacted by The Avengers' battle against the invading alien species.

His girlfriend was the most beautiful, generous, intoxicating, resilient woman in the world. For some strange reason, she was still crazy about him even six months after being kidnapped by Doc Ock; even after nights of his chasing down vagabonds in the middle of the night and not coming home until the small hours of the morning, only to face a long day of work. Even knowing that there was still a very small part of Peter Parker that would forever hold onto the memory of his first love, Mary Jane still stuck with him like glue. He was more grateful to her for that than he thought it possible to express.

And MJ wasn't the only thing that made his life more than worthwhile. He swung past the tall glass sided building that had once been OsCorp. Now, however, it was Horizon Labs, a subsidiary of Stark Industries, and also the workplace of one Peter Parker himself. The work was nothing like his days toiling at The Daily Bugle, and the pay was enough to keep both him and MJ happy.

Not to mention the staff were very generous when it came to personal time.

 _Thank God I had today off for MJ's play_ , Peter thought as he zipped past Horizon and towards Queens. _I might have gotten the upper hand on that nutcase with the shiny mug, but MJ would have made Mysterio wish he'd never been born if he'd been the reason I missed seeing her on opening night._

He dropped behind the public library in Queens, falling behind a tall collection of dumpsters. In the warm, late spring sunlight the alley behind the library positively reeked, but it was the perfect hiding place for him to strip off his Spider-Man costume and hastily climb into his civilian clothes. Once, after a night on the town with his best friend, Peter had taken a series of funny pictures of himself getting undressed from his Spider-Man suit. Eddie Brock, just as drunk, had nearly pissed himself laughing, although morning light and a severe talking to from Mary Jane had made them both see sense.

 _Take the good with the bad,_ he forced himself to think as he turned onto the street where he and MJ lived. It had been something of a mantra for the entire city since the alien invasion. Sure, a majority of the Bronx had turned into a pit of violent crime in the wake of the attack, but The Avengers had also come out of it, along with a bevy of merchandise based on them.

 _Nobody ever made cereal with Spider-Man shapes,_ he thought with a dry grin to himself.

The house in Queens where he and MJ lived had been a blessing in and of itself. It was a single story with a nice backyard in a community that was relatively low on the crime scale: the perfect place for a young couple just starting out in the world, and still relatively affordable. Any and all quirks that came up, Peter could usually fix. It did pay to be a geek sometimes, nomoreso than when he and MJ avoided maintenance fees by having Peter there to get the heat register and air conditioning unit up and running in no time.

It was also only a fifteen minute walk (and three minute swing with a good tailwind) to Aunt May's house, and situated right next door to the person who had snagged the house for Peter and MJ in the first place.

As Peter opened the gate to the small front yard, he caught sight of a lanky teenage boy returning from the back alley with an empty blue recycling bin. He noticed Peter in kind, and smiled, his pearly white teeth contrasting against his smooth, brown skin.

"Miles, my man," Peter said, leaning against the fence that separated his and MJ's house from the Morales home next door. "Doing your part to save the Earth, I see. It really brings a tear to the scientist in me."

"You know it," Miles said. He cradled the bin against his side and fist-bumped Peter across the low, chain-link fence. "At least my Mom is," he amended. "Not that I don't care about recycling. It's just a pain in the ass to have to do."

Peter winced. "Careful, dude. The window's open. Don't want your Mom to hear you being a potty-mouth do you?"

Miles rolled his eyes. "She's decided that fifteen's an okay age for me to say the kind of things you can get away with in a PG-13 movie...at least in the old days. Seeing as she had me when she was sixteen, that's actually a pretty sweet deal."

"Just don't go pulling it at school. I still remember the shouting match when you got suspended in February."

Miles narrowed his eyes. "Hey, come on now Pete...that kid had it coming. Calling Ganke a fat-ass for no damn reason. I'm not sorry I broke his nose, and neither is Mom. She even told the superintendent that."

"Well just don't go getting into trouble this late into the school year, alright?" Rio, Miles' mother, was still working at MJ's old place of work. Her bar-tending job and monthly child support were enough to look after the house, but not nearly enough to accommodate a growing son with a penchant for getting into trouble.

"No sweat," Miles said with another toothy grin. "I've been a good boy since getting that four day vacation. And my grades have been pulling up thanks to all the help you've given me. Mom says if I keep up the good work that we might be able to go to The Hampton's sometime in the summer."

"Between you and me, MJ's probably going to force both of you to go with her when she takes time off."

The door behind Miles opened. Rio, her sleek black hair tied in a ponytail, stood half-way out the door. "Miles, hurry up with that. Dinner's ready."

Miles rolled his eyes with a teenage aloofness that gave Peter a serious case of nostalgia. "Gimme a sec, I'm talking to Peter!"

Rio's eyes flashed with annoyance. She took half a step out the door, her skirt fluttering in the warm breeze. For such a small woman, she could pack a lot of temper, something both Peter and MJ were reminded of every time something set Rio off. "You're gonna be talking to the director of the homeless shelter if you give me that kinda lip again!" She snapped at her son.

Miles deflated, his teenage ego punctured by shame. "Sorry, Mama," he said, turning and walking up the concrete steps with his head down. Rio gave him an imperious look as he walked past her; Miles was almost taller than she was, but he knew better than to give her grief.

Rio let the door close behind her son as she walked down the steps to the fence.

"Sorry, Rio," Peter said, rubbing the back of his head. "I didn't mean to keep him."

"Don't you go apologizing for his back-talking," Rio said. Then, she sighed, the spark of temper leaving her as quickly as Miles' bravado had. "He's a good boy...he's just been getting a little outta hand lately."

"It's called puberty, Rio."

Rio rolled her eyes. "Puberty is eating four plates of chicken casserole in a row. Puberty is me having to wash out stains from his sheets that I don't even wanna think about. Miles is just...I don't know, Pete. He's been getting all jumpy since that attack in The Bronx the other month. You'd think he'd be scared stiff to even leave the house anymore, but not Miles." She shook her head, her young face lined with care and worry for her child.

Then suddenly annoyance sparked behind her green eyes. "All them damn heroes running around. First it was Spider-Man and now it's The Avengers. They're giving him and every other aimless teenager bad ideas."

"Well, The Avengers are too liable in the eyes of the law to let themselves be responsible for any young people trying to play superhero," Peter said evasively.

Rio snorted. "It's not The Avengers I'm worried about. The only thing Miles ever talks about to do with them is Black Widow, not that I blame him...girlfriend kicks some serious ass."

"And,of course, puberty," Peter said with a chuckle.

"And puberty," Rio repeated with a smile of her own. "Nah, Spider-Man's always going to be Miles' hero. Good thing for me he's still got enough sense to not go trying to swing from the top of his school yet."

Peter kicked the grass awkwardly. "He's a smart kid, Rio. He wouldn't do anything like that. And if he tries, tell him that...tell him that I'll go blabbing to Spider-Man myself. I used to be the guy's photographer after all."

Rio laughed. The door behind her squeaked open. Much in the same way that Rio had stood in the door to call him in, Miles now appeared, halfway between the landing of the stairs and the screen door.

"Mama," he said with a dramatic stab at superiority, "hurry up. Dinner's getting cold."

Rio glared at her son. "The only thing that's going to be cold, Miles Morales, is your stiff-ass body once I put you in the ground for sassing me. I brought you into this world and I will take you out!"

Miles stuck his tongue out at Rio but obligingly ducked back inside. Not wanting to remain on the subject of her son's attitude, Peter reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small envelope that he'd been given earlier that morning.

"By the way," he said, handing the envelope to Rio, "these are from MJ. It's tickets for the show tonight."

Rio stared at the envelope with a curious mixture of gratitude and anger. For a moment, she simply held it tightly between her fingers. Peter half expected her to fling it at him and storm away, but Rio Morales wasn't one to turn down a gift from a friend. Charity, yes, but not something that was offered in mere friendship.

"I told her we'd come see her later this month," she said quietly.

"Well, she wanted to make sure that you guys were there for the big night. And those are front row seats, so you'll be with me and Aunt May and Eddie for the whole three hours."

"Tell MJ that she is going to get a good talking to the next time I see her."

Peter smirked. "And I think that you would be the one talking to the director of the homeless shelter in that event."

Rio laughed. "Probably. Well...guess I'll see you both tonight, Peter." She turned and walked back up the steps, her head bowed, still staring at the envelope as though not quite sure what to make of it.

Peter watched her go. People like Rio Morales and her son reminded him constantly that super powers didn't make a person strong. _And they sure as hell don't make them any more or less important_ , he told himself as he stepped into his own home. Let The Avengers take care of the kinds of things that had once been on Spider-Man's plate. They didn't have the things that Peter Parker had to come home to.

The television was still on at a low volume. A small pile of dishes were in the sink in the kitchen, remnants from his breakfast and MJ's lunch. Quietly, Peter rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. Taking care not to make too much noise, he walked down the small hallway to his and MJ's bedroom, and quietly opened the door. The blinds were closed, tapping gently against the windowsill in the evening breeze.

MJ was curled up on their queen size bed, the covers pooled at her waist. She was wearing one of his t-shirts; her flaming hair was in disarray, but she looked completely at peace. Peter looked down at her, smiling softly to himself. No matter how many times he saw MJ, he knew that he would always feel this same, giddy warmth in his chest. She was more than just stunningly beautiful: she was courageous, enough so to have saved his life several times during the time when Otto Octavius had been terrorizing the city. She was warm and loving and completely wonderful, and best of all, she was all his. She put up with Spider-Man, had even seen through the mask long before Peter had ever known that she had.

As quietly as he could, he slipped into bed beside her, pulling the sheets around them. He'd only been patrolling the city for a few hours, but it had felt like several days without her.

MJ stirred, and rolled over to cuddle closer to him. Peter smiled, his eyes closed, savoring the warmth and nearness of the woman he loved.

"How was the rat race, Tiger?" She asked sleepily.

"Underwhelming," he said. "Just some nut in a glass mask kidnapping the senator's daughter. Shoulda seen some of the special effects he had, though. It was actually kinda fascinating." He felt MJ poke him in the tummy, and he grunted. "Ow! I meant it was fascinating from a scientific perspective."

"Says your mom," MJ said punitively. Peter could just picture her sticking her tongue out at him, and he grinned in spite of himself.

"She did, did she? MJ, you haven't been playing around with Ouija boards have you? That's just what I need: a demon possessed girlfriend."

"You're possessed by a demon."

"I was in bed last night," Peter fired back, sticking his tongue out, but still not opening his eyes. It felt too damn good to be with her like this, just goofing off in bed for the hell of it.

Mary Jane giggled, and then poked him again. Peter felt her stir briefly out of his arms for a moment before she settled on top of him, straddling his waist, the ends of her hair tickling his face.

Heat pooled in the pit of Peter's stomach. He felt his mind go slightly numb at the suggestion. Before he could stop himself, he wrapped his arms around Mary Jane and pulled her closer to him. Their lips met, warm and wet and needy. Peter wanted to drown in it, in her. Even if he hadn't been gone all that long, the insecurities he tried so hard to swallow down had been woken up by the hostage that he had saved. He didn't want to be the kind of hero that whined and complained because there was no longer job security for him. He wanted to be the kind of hero who treasured moments where he _wasn't_ behind a mask and fighting with maniacs with holographs in glass spheres.

Opening his eyes, he flipped them over, pressing against Mary Jane as he trailed kisses down her throat. MJ let out a gasp, her fingers digging into his back. Peter felt suddenly too warm in his t-shirt, and he peeled it off and threw it across the room before diving back down to devour the woman he loved.

Suddenly she stilled and turned her head to the alarm clock on the night side table.

"Oh shit!" She squealed. Peter found himself suddenly tumbling off of the bed as MJ all but sprung from the mattress. "I can't believe that I overslept that long!"

"What?" Peter said dumbly from the floor. But Mary Jane ignored him, flying around the room and gathering up clothes and her make up bag.

"I thought I set the alarm on my phone too," MJ wailed, disappearing into the bathroom that adjoined their bedroom.

"What alarm?" Peter said, still completely bemused. "MJ, my radioactive blood is kinda rushing in the opposite direction of my brain. What's going on? I thought the show didn't start until nine!"

"I know," MJ said from the bathroom. Peter heard the sounds of the shower starting and decided to pick himself up from off the floor. "But there's still the last minute run through. It's so stupid. It's not even a rehearsal. They just want to make sure everything is in working order and I've gotta be there by seven."

Peter looked at the alarm clock and felt his heart sink. It was a little before six, and with the commute factored in, MJ would have to be out the door within fifteen minutes.

"I could...I could always swing you there," Peter said, leaning against the door frame of the bathroom. MJ had already pulled the shower curtain closed. She poked her head out from the stall, her hair already sopping wet.

"Would you really?"

"Of course, honey," Peter said with a smile. He wiggled his eyebrows and added, "It'll give us at least a little bit of time for what Aunt May refers to as hanky panky."

MJ giggled and then bit her lip. After a moment's hesitation, she disappeared around the shower curtain once more and said, "Nah, I'd better just hoof it the old fashioned way, Tiger. I'm already dodging questions about me and Spider-Man thanks to that article last Christmas. And we both know where that lead."

Peter winced as guilt stabbed at him again. Eddie had taken an opportune picture of Spider-Man standing next to MJ after an attack on a mall in Queens. _The Daily Bugle_ had run it, and Peter was quite sure that that was the reason that Doc Ock had had MJ kidnapped along with Eddie on Christmas Eve.

"Aw Tiger," MJ said, ducking out from the shower after turning off the water and wrapping a towel around herself. Hurried as she was, she still looked immensely guilty for what she had said. "I didn't mean it like that. It's just-"

"No," Peter said, shaking his head and smiling. "You're right. It'd kill me if anything happened to you because of Spider-Man. You know that."

MJ smiled appreciatively at him, and then bit her bottom lip, looking pensive. Whether it was a result of his spider-senses, Peter really didn't know, but he anticipated what she was going to say before she even said it.

"You are not giving up on this because of my occupational hazards," he said sternly. "We've been through this, MJ." The day he got in the way of her dreams was the day that he actually grew an extra set of arms to match his namesake.

"I know," she said, walking into his arms. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her warm, wet skin against his bare chest. "It just feels rotten to give you the slip so suddenly. Especially when things were just getting good."

His arms around her, Peter kissed the top of her head and said, "Well look at it this way: putting off a little fun time right now means we'll have more energy after you knock 'em dead tonight."

"Totally. We'll wake the neighbors, Tiger."

"Damn straight we will. It's about time somebody explained the birds and the bees to Miles anyway."

Laughing again, MJ gave Peter a quick kiss on the lips and then hurried off to finish getting ready. Peter, suddenly realizing just how tired he was from his little tussle with Mysterio earlier, collapsed on the bed once more, his eyes closed, listening to the noises of Mary Jane prattling around in the bathroom as she got ready to leave.

It didn't matter to him. She was going to make a killing at the show, and that would make her happy. If anybody deserved happiness, it was Mary Jane. There was a new crew in town, one that was far more capable than Spider-Man at cleaning up the city's messes. It left him time for this, time to watch MJ's dreams flourish.

 _That's all that counts_ , Peter thought as he rolled over onto his stomach.

But, gnawing at him from a dark pocket of his mind was also a thought that had been plaguing him ever since The Avengers had first shown up to take care of the streets of New York City. It had crawled into his mind like an incubus, rising at times like this whenever he let his guard down.

Without the need to suit up as much as he used to, and with MJ busy with her growing career, there were times when Peter Parker felt completely and utterly useless.


	2. Curtain Call

The house was always lonely when Mary Jane wasn't there. Even being so close to the busy bustle of 120th Avenue it seemed quieter without her laughter and sarcastic jibes. Peter went about getting ready for his night out by rote after MJ kissed him goodbye. He turned on Netflix just for the sound, and made himself a quick dinner.

 _I'm like a dog_ , he thought as he munched on his macaroni and cheese. _Watching reruns of The X-Files just for the sake of pretending like somebody else is home_. He glanced out the kitchen window that overlooked the side of the Morales's house. A light was on in the dining room; no doubt Rio and Miles were enjoying some of Rio's exquisite home cooking while watching TV together.

He hated the petulance of his own thoughts. MJ had a life outside of him, one that had never bothered him in the peaceful time following the death of Otto Octavius. Peter hated controlling boyfriends, not that he thought he was being controlling-he was simply throwing a pity party, and that was just as bad.

MJ had to contend with a boyfriend who divided his time between home, work and swinging around the streets of New York City fighting crime.

At least she'd had to in the past. Now, Peter was spending more and more time at Horizon Labs. His evenings were spent at home, doing...well, pretty much exactly what it was that he was doing now: sitting down to a solitary dinner and watching shows that he'd already seen a dozen times on Netflix.

He was starting to feel listless.

Grimacing, Peter dropped his fork in his bowl of half-finished mac and cheese and pushed himself away from the table. He felt disgusted in himself.

"Grow a pair," he told his blurry reflection as he walked by the microwave.

He showered, not bothering to turn off the television or the PS3 that was currently asking him if he was, in fact, still watching _The X-Files_. He forced himself to think positive thoughts as the hot water beat down over his body. Tonight was MJ's big debut and would, in essence, also be a bit of a mini-reunion for everyone in their little world. Life had crept in, keeping everyone they knew-aside from Rio and Miles-too busy to keep in touch as often as they had done before.

Peter grimaced at this train of thought.

Terrific.

He was depressed again.

Shaking his head, Peter shut the water off and stepped out of the shower. He heard the strains of "You're My Best Friend" by Queen issuing from the bedroom and hustled out to answer his phone, dripping water all over the floor as he went.

"What are you wearing?" Eddie Brock said in an affected purr.

Peter rolled his eyes, but smiled nonetheless. "A towel. And for bonus points, I'm soaking wet right now."

"Oh baby," Eddie replied. "Oh that's so hot. You're making me all kinds of turned on right now." Even beneath the inflection in his voice, Peter could hear the rush of syllables; the way that Eddie's tongue seemed weigh each word before he spoke.

Peter didn't like thinking that his best friend had been doing anything with his day off from working at the _Daily Bugle_ aside from attending physical therapy. But since he'd come out of the hospital, he hadn't gone a weekend without disappearing into the bottom of a bottle of Captain Morgan.

Deciding to give Eddie the benefit of the doubt, Peter hobbled out of the towel and started dressing as well he could with his smartphone cradled on his shoulder. "Don't get all lovey-dovey too loudly. MJ might be home and overhear you."

"Psh," Eddie snorted, and once again Peter realized that his friend was likely batting eighteen sheets to the wind in spite of it being seven-thirty at night. "She's not home."

"And how would you know that?"

"Would you believe it if I said it was because my spider-sense told me?"

Peter rolled his eyes as he struggled into a pair of dress pants. "No."

Eddie chuckled a drunken laugh which made Peter almost wince. "How I about if I said I checked her Instagram and saw a photo of her, Kitty, Angelica and one of her co-stars having dinner?"

"I would ask you if you frequently stalk the social media accounts of your best friends' girlfriends?" Peter stowed two web-slingers under the cuffs of his suit jacket and grabbed his Spider-Man mask. He had no intention of stopping to play hero on MJ's big night, but he wasn't about to go swinging around Broadway with his face showing.

"That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh, I like it." Eddie let out another drunken giggle. Peter paused in pulling his suit jacket over his shoulders. He felt irritated all of a sudden, and more than just a little bit concerned.

"Eddie, are you drunk?" Not that it was necessary to ask. He knew the answer because he'd been dealing with Eddie's typical histrionics for almost as long as his best friend had been out of the hospital. He didn't need enhanced senses to tell him when Eddie had been hitting the bottle too hard.

"Well," Eddie drawled after a pregnant pause, "everything does seem a lot more funny, infuriating and emotionally devastating at the moment." He let out another giggle. "But don't you worry your pretty little head, Petey. I'll be sober-ish by the time I find a parking spot at the _Imperial_."

"Eddie," Peter said sharply, his temper flaring as he raced for the front door. "If you so much as touch your car keys I'll rearrange the alphabet and put my foot and your ass closer together."

"Mmm, I love it when you talk dirty."

"I mean it!" Peter already had the door shouldered open. He lowered his voice, in spite of the fact that there was nobody on the street to overhear his next words. "Stay put. I'll swing us over to the _Imperial_ together. Make sure you're decent by the time I get to your place."

"So I should wear more than just my thong?"

Peter rolled his eyes and hung up in disgust. He half-jogged down the street and around the corner to the low, red-brick security of _St. Alban's Church_. It wasn't a skyscraper in Manhattan, but it was the best place Peter knew to take off from when he needed to swing out of Queens. He leaped up the walls of the building, thankful for the fact that it was a quiet night. Anger made him overshoot, and he cleared the side of the church faster than he meant to.

He landed in a crouch, his eyes narrowed. He tugged his mask over his head and took off, swinging along the street from street lamp to street lamp, trying his hardest not to seethe over his conversation with Eddie.

In sober truth, Eddie had every right to be in the current state he was in. Peter and MJ had survived their ordeal with Doctor Octopus with nothing more than minor trauma and a few bumps and bruises. But Eddie had been dealt the worst of it, and not even at the eight hands of the now deceased doctor.

Peter's hands shook on his line of webbing as he soared over Merrick Boulevard towards the Grand Central Parkway. Christmas morning had been a mingled blessing and torment for him. MJ had showed her courage and tenacity, stubbornly refusing to leave his side in spite of the danger Spider-Man posed to her. It would have been a warming memory if it hadn't been for the fact that, barely half an hour after their conversation on the roof of Metropolitan Hospital, Peter had had to see his best friend lying near death on a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of him.

 _And all because you…_

Peter shook his head as the treacherous voice in his head threatened to lead him down yet another endless spiral of self-loathing. How was he supposed to have known that Eddie and Mary Jane had been ambushed by Cletus Kasady only a floor above him when he'd been taking on at least fifty of Doc Ock's goons? The battle against the escaped Ravencroft inmates had been gravy, and if he'd known that one of the most notorious lunatics in the state's history was lurking only a floor above, he'd have torn through the concrete ceiling to save the two people he loved.

But he hadn't known. And now Eddie was dealing with the consequences of that six months after the fact.

The swing from Queens to Manhattan took a little under twenty minutes. Peter and MJ's home wasn't exactly prime location when it came to crime fighting or holding down jobs in the city, but it was peaceful, and that was what mattered most to them.

Golden-pink light stretched over the rooftops of Manhattan as the sun began to sink towards the West. Shadows loomed over the alleys and streets, and Peter felt camouflaged by the gradual twilight. In the distance, the _Avengers Tower_ loomed over the rest of the city, and Peter had to keep a firm grip on two webs to stop himself from flipping the place off in his foul mood.

Instead, he swung towards an all-to familiar section of the city. It felt incongruous, what with the turn his life had taken in the last two months, that he'd spent over a year of his life in these old stomping grounds of low apartment and office buildings. The arched roof of the _Daily Bugle_ was nothing more than a blur beneath him as he swung towards the apartment building he'd once lived in with Eddie.

It felt as if he'd lived two different lives in the space of half a year.

Peter landed on the familiar roof of his old apartment, and quickly stripped off his mask. He headed through the roof access doors and took the elevator to the ninth floor where Eddie now occupied their once shared suite alone.

Peter knocked on the door, grimacing at the loud music thudding from one of the suites down the corridor. The heavy bass of Garbage's "Push It," was not enough to hide the sounds of Eddie staggering down the hallway to answer the door.

"Aw, you got all dolled up for me!" Eddie's eyes were unfocused as he looked Peter up and down.

"I'm surprised you managed to get into your suit," Peter said as he surveyed his friend. Eddie had gotten himself ready, but only just so. His blonde hair, which was normally short and gelled back, now brushed the collar of his dark blue sport coat. He hadn't shaved in weeks, and his normally alert grey eyes were unfocused and bloodshot.

He also stank like a distillery, but Peter wasn't about to tell him that.

"Times like this I wish Marcella was still making house calls," Eddie said. His hand was gripping the door frame, his knuckles white with the effort it was taking to keep himself upright. "She got me dressed faster than the Roadrunner." He giggled lasciviously and added, "She also got me undressed just as quickly but that's besides the point."

"I know," Peter said with a lock-jawed smile. "You did make me proof-read your _Penthouse Forum_ article on the subject after all."

Eddie hiccuped. In spite of the fact that he'd spent the last six months on the mend, he still had the build that belied his time as a varsity college football player and, in his personal opinion, professional frat boy. Eddie took his physical therapy very seriously, although Peter always figured that this was due more to the fact that Eddie was terrified of going to seed than it was his desire to recover.

"You ready to go?" Peter asked pointedly. He tapped his wrist and added, "Curtain's going up in thirty. MJ will tear your balls off if you're late."

"What's with the kinky talk tonight, Pete?" Eddie slurred.

"I'm in a mood," Peter replied flatly.

"This have anything to do with your oh-so exciting, high speed chase today?" Eddie smiled at Peter's scowl. "I may be freelancing from home, but I'm still lancing. J.J needs my expertise when it comes to all thinks superhero since you abandoned us."

"I don't look at it as abandoning. It was a strategic career move." He tapped his wrist again. "Tick-tock, my friend. If it helps, there's supposed to be a topless scene before intermission."

"Really?" Eddie's eyes sparkled. "Why didn't anyone say so in the first place?" Excited by Peter's blatant lie, he took a step forward, forgetting just why it was that he had the door frame in a death grip. Peter stepped forward a split second before Eddie staggered with a cry of pain and frustration. He caught the bigger man under the arms. He made to help Eddie stand up straight, but his friend squirmed out of his grip with an angry snarl.

"I'm fine!" He snapped, his voice echoing down the hallway. The music from the other suite stopped, and Peter felt his neck prickle. Eddie was staring at him, his handsome face blushed red. "I can do it myself, alright?"

"Sorry, it slipped my mind," Peter said hotly, his eyes boring into Eddie's. "Next time I'll just let you face plant and watch you struggle to stand up."

Eddie stared at him, looking like a slapped puppy. Peter felt shame creep up his spine, but before he could utter an apology, Eddie let out another drunken laugh, his hand braced on the door frame again. "It's all good, man! Jesus, take a joke why don't you?" He disappeared down the hallway for a brief moment, keeping his hand against the wall for support. When he returned, he was walking with a cane.

Peter averted his eyes as Eddie limped into the hallway and locked the door behind him.

"I think it compliments my swag," Eddie said as he fell into step beside Peter. He nodded at the cane. Given the market for walking aids, Peter had to agree that the simple black cane with it's sophisticated, silver knob was quite stylish and added to Eddie's debonair suit. But with his unkempt hair and unshaven face, Eddie simply looked like he was playing the part of somebody who had their act together.

Determined to smooth things over, Peter said, "You sure you don't wanna ditch the stick, Daddy Morebucks?"

"What, and have to lean on you for the rest of the night?" Eddie grinned as they stepped into the elevator. "I don't think your girl would like seeing that kind of public display of affection."

"You obviously don't know Mary Jane very well," Peter muttered.

"Pete, I have a severed sciatic nerve, not Bell's palsy. It's very moving that you wanna get all touchy-feely in public but maybe we should save that for the next time we have a guy's night in." He bounced on the ball of his good foot and added, "It could be just like that one time we were watching that _Wings of Liberty_ tourney and you had too much Grey Goose."

"We agreed never to speak about that," Peter replied with a wry smile. Eddie's moods could turn on a dime, depending on how much he'd had to drink, how much pain he was in and how many Zydol he'd popped during the day.

Once they reached the roof, Peter pulled his mask on and stood on the ledge of the building. Eddie limped over to him, stowed his cane under his arm, and wrapped his arms around the back of Peter's neck.

"Mph," Peter grunted, pretending to stagger forward. "You've been eating too much pizza lately."

"Not all of us have a luscious actress to cook our meals," Eddie fired back.

"Do me a solid," Peter said as he fired a line to an opposite building and swung off the roof, "breathe downwind from me. Your breath reeks, dude."

Eddie blew on Peter's neck, making him grimace. "I swear to God I'll drop you," he told his friend.

"You wouldn't let me die. You love me too much."

"And that is my biggest downfall," Peter muttered. Whether or not Eddie heard him, he couldn't tell. The other man lolled his chin onto Peter's shoulder as they swung towards Broadway, staying silent. Peter counted it as a blessing, given that the smell of rum on Eddie's breath was enough to make him drunk by proxy.

He ignored the sounds of sirens from the dark streets below, albeit with immense difficulty. As they got closer and closer to the heart of Manhattan, Peter felt his spider-senses go off several times, but again, he ignored the call. There were more important things going on at the moment, although he was tempted to set Eddie down on the edge of Central Park West and do a quick patrol for posterity sake.

Almost as soon as that thought entered his mind, he chanced a glanced towards Avengers Tower and saw what appeared to be a comet streaking from the edge of the building.

 _Iron Man saves the day again_ , Peter thought with a grimace. He sighed, hefted the still silent Eddie to a more stable position on his back and landed on the rooftop of the Imperial Theater.

The lights of Broadway were blinding and brilliant. Fortunately for Peter, the corners of the _Imperial_ were dark enough for him to make a landing without drawing any attention to himself. Had he still be on the Bugle's payroll, he probably would have made a fortune for pictures of Spider-Man in a suit carrying what appeared to be a drunk trust fund baby home from a night of partying.

He crawled down the side of the theater backwards, and it was only when he reached the alley below and took his mask off that he realized Eddie was snoring into his neck.

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," Peter said, gently but firmly nudging his friend awake. Eddie didn't budge. "What do I look like, a memory foam mattress?" Peter elbowed Eddie in the ribs and he grunted awake, sliding to the alley floor with Peter keeping a firm hand on his arm to keep him stable.

"It's customary to kiss a sleeping princess awake," Eddie grumbled as he got a grip on his cane. "God, I hope I wasn't drooling."

"Only minor," Peter replied. "You look presentable enough. C'mon, we better hustle or we're going to be late and then I'll never hear the end of it."

Given that it was the opening night of the _Les Mis_ revival, there was already a crowd gathered in front of the theater. Peter felt as if he'd been thrust into a Hollywood premiere, and, he had to admit to himself that it was exciting. All these people, while not here solely for Mary Jane, would see her, see the passion that she tackled her role with. He grinned like an idiot as he and Eddie jostled their way to the entrance. He caught glimpses of familiar faces in the lobby: Betty Brant was accompanied by a dapperly dressed Robbie Robertson. Both of them were covering the premiere for the _Daily Bugle_. Standing a little awkwardly by a fake potted elephant plant, Rio Morales was fussing over the simple button up shirt and black jeans that Miles had worn to the opening. Miles caught sight of Peter and grimaced his disdain as Rio moved her son's face this way and that to see if he'd cleaned up perfectly.

Peter gave the boy a thumbs up, which Miles returned. He felt Eddie slip away from him, and, turning, saw his friend making a beeline towards two young women. Peter almost laughed when he saw the petite brunette's face fall at Eddie's approach. The willowy, bespectacled redhead beside her scarcely noticed Eddie; she was too bust fanning herself with the playbill in spite of the fact that the air conditioning in the lobby was keeping things at a climate controlled level.

It took only a few seconds for the brunette to muster up an excuse and drag the sweating redhead away by the wrist. Chuckling, Peter sauntered over towards Eddie, who was grinning after the two women.

"Usual charm didn't quite cut it, huh?"

Eddie shrugged. "Kitty and Angelica are used to me by now." Peter glanced over his shoulder and frowned. He was certain that Kitty had been right behind him and yet it seemed as if she'd vanished through the wall of the lobby, taking Angelica with her.

"We're sitting next to them," Eddie added, "so they'll have the whole three hour show to fall for me."

"Last time I checked, Kitty was dating that Russian dude. The one built like a brick building. I'd be careful if I were you."

Eddie snorted. "That Ruskie? He's an artist, Peter. How many artists did you know who can pack a punch? Besides, if Kitty's not interested I'll just make the moves on Angel. She broke up with that Astrovik dude a few months ago."

"God, you're like a jackrabbit," Peter muttered. "Try to keep your hands to yourself during the show. It'd be a sad sight if they ushers had to drag at a perverted invalid."

Eddie wiggled his eyebrows. "Just because my leg is limp doesn't mean the parts of me that matter most stay that way."

"Eddie Brock!" A stern but warm voice from behind made the two turn. Peter smiled broadly when he saw Aunt May standing behind him with her hands on her hips in an affected show of disapproval. She was wearing a dark blue evening dress and a shawl; her hair had been styled in an elegant wave and her whole face was lit up with amusement at the sight of her nephew and his best friend.

"You're going to have to forgive him," Peter said, giving his aunt a tight hug. "He missed the memo on good manners."

"Oh, I got the memo," Eddie said. "Too long, didn't read."

Aunt May rolled her eyes.

"I'm glad they gave you the night off," Peter said, tucking his arm under hers and walking with her and Eddie into the dim theater.

"As if I would give them any choice," Aunt May replied with a small, superior smile. "It's the perk of being head nurse; you can make all the interns and underlings pick up shifts and there's not a damn thing they can do about it."

Eddie let out an affected gasp. "Aunt May! Such language."

"I learn from all you young people," Aunt May replied with a cheeky smile as she took her seat.

Peter felt more relaxed as he took his seat between Aunt May and Eddie. In a matter of minutes, the woman he loved would be lighting up that dark stage, living her dream. Tonight was separate from Spider-Man, from everything chaotic in their lives. He had a front row, center seat, and even as the theater began to fill with people, Peter felt as if this whole night was simply about what he and MJ had helped each other achieve together.

And when Mary Jane, as Eponine, finally stepped on stage, Peter's eyes never left her for a moment. She was the only thing in the universe, singing her heart out. Songs of unrequited love, of hopes that never saw fruition filled him with brimming emotion. And when the character of Eponine finally lost her life, Peter felt his heart breaking.

MJ never once looked at him, he could feel a connection, a deeper understanding that went beyond the physical. When the curtain finally fell, he was the first on his feet and the last to sit down. He felt warm with devotion for the woman he loved, forgetting about all his own selfish worries and cares as he left the theater with Aunt May and Eddie.

"Oh, I've got goosebumps," Aunt may said with a shiver. She wiped at her eyes with the corner of her shawl. "I can't believe that Anna chose this weekend to fall ill!"

"Aunt May, she has mono," Peter said fairly, although he had to agree that MJ's aunt missing her opening performance was a bit of a blow to her.

"Yes well," Aunt May said indignantly, "there was nothing stopping her from wearing a medical mask."

The cast and their guests had a restaurant across the street booked for an after-party. Peter, Aunt May and Eddie joined a group of familiar faces as they hurried over the crosswalk. Peter noticed Kitty making a concerted effort to avoid Eddie. Once or twice he half imagined her slipping through some of the other guests, but it was more than likely his imagination. Angelica, on the other hand, seemed relieved to have gotten into the fresh night air; she'd stopped sweating and was chatting animatedly with Betty Brant.

The restaurant was all buzz and bustle. Peter found a booth for a group consisting of himself, Aunt May, Betty, Robbie and Kitty and Angelica (much to Kitty's chagrin). Eddie excused himself to use the bathroom before sitting down.

"Right," Kitty muttered. "If he's using the bathroom then I'm an Academy Award nominee."

Peter frowned, keeping his eyes on the back of Eddie's shaggy blonde hair. His friend was limping in the direction of the restroom, but Peter had a sinking feeling that he'd be making a beeline for the bar almost as soon as he was done.

A thunder of applause filled the restaurant a moment later as the cast and crew of _Les Mis_ entered. Peter smiled broadly as MJ, flushed with excitement, laid eyes on him. She tore away from the group and all but ran towards him, weaving in and out of tables and waiters. Peter had to squirm his way around Aunt May and Kitty. He frowned as he staggered to the open floor, just in time for MJ to fling her arms around him. He was quite sure that Kitty hadn't moved an inch from her seat to let him by, and yet somehow, he'd gotten free of the booth.

The feeling of MJ's arms around him made him forget his bemusement. He breathed her in, holding her to him as they laughed together.

"You were amazing," he whispered to her over the roaring applause and conversation.

"I'm so happy you were there," she said back. Her face shone like the sun, and Peter kissed her again. They sat down together as the applause subsided. This time, Kitty really did get up to make way for MJ and Peter.

The director made a speech after their food was ordered. Then the writer made a speech. It took Peter until after the appetizers, and the second half of the casting director's speech, to realize that Eddie hadn't returned from the bathroom. He grimaced, extricated himself around MJ, Kitty and a still sweltering Angelica, and tried to be as unobtrusive as possible as he maneuvered his way around the crowded restaurant.

It took Peter only thirty seconds to realize that Eddie wasn't in the bathroom. He was sitting at the bar in the lounge area, a fact made all the more apparent by the definitive outside voice he was using. Peter had only to glance at the surly bartender, with his pencil mustache and stiff demeanor, to realize that Eddie was about a rabbit's hair away from getting kicked out.

"This doesn't look like the bathroom to me," Peter said as he drew level with Eddie's bar stool. Eddie spun around in his seat, wavering unsteadily. His face was already red as Spider-Man's mask and his eyes, already out of focus before they'd left his apartment, strained to get a good look at the person who'd disturbed his binge.

"Ah, there he is!" Eddie said with a stupid smile. He gave Peter a cuff on the arm with the hand that was holding a Tom Collins. "The woman of the moment's man! Hey, Inspector Clouseau!" Eddie called over his shoulder to the bartender, "get something for my buddy here! He could use a bit of lightening up."

"C'mon Eddie," Peter said, counting to ten in his head to keep calm. "This isn't the Peach Pit."

"Ugh," Eddie slurred with a derisive roll of his eyes. "Try and get you to have a good time."

"You've reached your limit."

"Stop telling me what to do! Geez, just because I can't walk without something to help me doesn't mean that I need you to carry me all the time!"

Anger clouded Peter's vision for a brief moment, and he resisted the urge to sock Eddie across his stupid face for saying that. He took several deep breaths as Eddie reached blindly for his glass. The bartender, knowing what was coming, reached across the bar and took the half-empty tumbler away.

"You've had enough, sir," he said, a definitive edge to his voice. "And if you don't get yourself under control, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Aw, great!" Eddie stormed, shooting the bartender a filthy look. "Look, Mac, I'm not drunk, alright? I'm just…I'm just a little troubled."

"Mac?" Peter repeated in disgust. "What are you, from the Fifties or something?"

Eddie groped blindly for the tumbler that the bartender had taken away. When he couldn't find it, he cursed loudly, causing several patrons of the restaurant to jump and look his way. Peter felt heat creeping up his neck at the unneeded attention being paid to him and the man who was close to becoming his former best friend.

"Where's…where's my drink?" Eddie glared at the bartender. When the man returned his glare with one of his own, Eddie swore again, this time yelling so loudly that the entire restaurant went quiet. Peter noticed MJ get to her feet and maneuver around Kitty and Angelica. The last thing he wanted was for her to get involved in Eddie's histrionic bull, so he stepped closer to his friend and put an hand on his shoulder.

"Calm down, dude. Let's just get you some—

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" Eddie roared. He shrugged Peter's hand off of his shoulder a little too aggressively. He wobbled on his bar stool for a moment and then fell to the floor. People gasped, some of them actually standing up to see what had happened. MJ stopped several paces away, looking worried.

"I got this," Peter said through gritted teeth. He crouched down, seized Eddie under the arms and, ignoring his best friend's shouts of protest, hauled him to his feet.

"That's right folks!" Eddie shouted to the onlooking crowds. "Watch the pathetic cripple get dragged away!" He tried to stand, but only toppled forwards again. Rolling his eyes, Peter lifted Eddie over his shoulder without any effort whatsoever. Nobody seemed to question how it was that somebody of Peter's compact frame could lift up a man Eddie's size as if he weighed nothing more than tissue paper.

"I'll see you back at the house," Peter told MJ as he walked towards the door of the restaurant. Eddie continued ranting and raving the whole time, screaming to anybody who would listen about Cletus Kasady putting him in this condition, about how Spider-Man had failed him and the rest of the city. It took Peter all his self-control to not drop Eddie in the gutter at that, but, as irritated as he was, he couldn't stoop that low.

Eddie was still his friend, even if he was currently the very definition of a hot mess.

By the time they reached the safety of an alley across the street, Eddie had fallen asleep, still slung over Peter's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Grimacing, Peter tugged his mask on, crawled up a wall and took off down the streets.

Eddie didn't wake up during the entire trip from Broadway back to his apartment. Peter was thankful, because if Eddie had woken up, Peter would probably have grilled him to the third degree.

Peter unmasked on the roof of his old apartment building and carried Eddie down three flights of stairs. He fished the suite key from his still snoring friend's sport coat and shouldered the door open.

The apartment suite was a mess. There were empty beer cans and takeout boxes all over what had once been the clean living room they'd shared. The musty smell of stale alcohol made Peter's nostrils sting as he carried Eddie down the hall and to his bedroom. Once there, he all but tossed Eddie onto the mattress.

Then, because he was a sucker for punishment, Peter set up cleaning the suite. This place had once been his home, after all, and he hated seeing in such a state of disrepair as much as he hated seeing Eddie so down and out.

It didn't take him as long as it might have. He used his webbing pull various empty beer cans and pizza boxes towards an open garbage bag. For good measure, he sprayed some air freshener he found in the pantry to hide the smell of old beer.

Peter was riding the high of his irritation. Cleaning was a way of distracting himself from how pissed he was at Eddie for having made a scene at the after party. The anger was poison on his tongue, and yet he couldn't help but hang onto it.

He poured Eddie a glass of water, took two Excedrin from the medicine chest in the bathroom and placed them on the nightstand by Eddie's bed. Eddie seemed to be still passed out cold, so Peter felt no reservations about donning his Spider-Man mask, opening the bedroom window and hopping onto the ledge.

He had just fired a line of webbing to the building across the street when he heard the mattress behind him groan. Leave, he told himself, just get out of here and avoid anymore chick-flick moments.

"Pete…" Eddie sounded groggy, but contrite. Peter didn't look back, but he lingered for a moment, still seething in spite of himself.

"I'm…I'm so sorry…" Eddie sounded like he was going to cry, which only made Peter even more irritated because Eddie's apology meant that Peter would be in the wrong if he remained angry at his best friend.

Shaking his head, Peter said, "Whatever. Apologize to MJ. She's the one whose night you trashed." With that, he swung out the window and into the night.

Peter was quite sure he heard Eddie sob before he took off.


	3. New Horizons

Horizon Labs was located in what was affectionately known by its employees as "The Ass End of South Seaport." It had once been the site of the OsCorp Building. Tony Stark had gotten his billion-dollar manicured hands on the facility, gutted it remodeled it and completely revamped it to be a modern, fully functioning hive for all things science.

Peter didn't swing to his job. It was too easy to be spotted getting changed in the fields of back parking lots that dominated the rear of the block. Like every other New Yorker worth their salt, he took the subway, and then walked for six blocks to the office.

Usually his commute to work was a chance to unwind from late night patrols, takedowns and the overall feeling of his life being meaningless of late. But after the events of the previous night, he spent his entire subway ride and subsequent walk to Horizon Labs with his head bowed against the sounds of New York City, barely feeling the soft spring zephyrs that glided over the sidewalks.

Mary Jane had returned less than half an hour after Peter had. That in and of itself was highly unusual, given that she'd been teasing him all week about staying out until the crack of dawn with the rest of the cast and crew.

"After parties are the fun part, Tiger," she'd told him.

When Peter had tried asking her why she'd come home so early, she'd simply shrugged, said she was tired, and then gone for a shower and right to bed. It had hurt Peter like a two-by-four to the gut. He knew the signs of MJ's walls going up and even though they'd slept side by side as usual, they may as well have been sleeping in different parts of the country.

She'd still been asleep when Peter had gotten up to get ready. And, in spite of the text message he'd sent her wishing her a good day, telling her that he loved her and that she was amazing, MJ had yet to reply.

So, it was with something less than his usual gusto that Peter walked through the pristinely clean sliding glass doors of Horizon Labs. He flashed his ID card at the security, returning the friendly man's greeting with a smile that was more of a grimace.

It had only been a few months since he'd gotten his job at Horizon, and still the high ceilinged, open-aired rotunda reminded him too much of OsCorp, and all the things it had cost him. Even though he'd left things with Harry Osborn somewhat better the previous Christmas, Peter wasn't about to go throwing a ticker tape parade in his honor, or the honor of anything his downfallen empire had laid its bloody hands on.

As far as Peter was concerned, he worked for Tony Stark, not that that was much of an improvement. And while the man seemed to own just about everything in North America, at least Tony Stark didn't go around killing people in the name of advancement.

Peter rode the elevator to the seventh floor with a usual cluster of lab techs, doctors, physicists, scientists and engineers, not paying them the slightest attention.

He didn't know whom he hated more: Eddie for ruining MJ's big debut, or himself for being mad at Eddie. His best friend was, after all, in dire straits, and it wasn't fair for Peter to be giving him the third degree.

But it was just so damn unfair of Eddie to be pulling all this dramatic stuff in the middle of everything else going on in Peter's life.

 _Check yourself_ , Parker, Peter told himself with another grimace as he got out on his floor. _You're not the center of the universe._ Earth wasn't even the center of the universe anymore, not after the alien invasion that had almost leveled Hell's Kitchen.

There were bigger things happening than his problems.

Usually he lost himself in his work, joking around with the other scientist's and interns and generally making a valiant stab towards progress before his lunch break. That day, however, he was so consumed by his own thoughts that he put blinders on, zeroing in on the development of a brand new style of eyeglasses (developed by Stark Industries under its Horizon umbrella and sold by AccuTech, a Stark subsidiary).

He felt like he'd grown immense porcupine quills, and whenever somebody said or did something to disturb his space, he would bristle and either withdraw or silently tell them to keep their distance. And the worst part was, it wasn't entirely unheard of; Peter's support staff had gotten used to his moodiness in the last several weeks. The fact that they knew it was even more of a reason for Peter to feel choked with self-loathing.

It was with great relief that he finally clocked out for his hour-long lunch. As he took the elevator down to the cafeteria, he checked his phone, and smiled a little.

MJ had returned his text message.

 _Of course you love me (smiley face). Your life would be meaningless without me. But seriously, Tiger. Sorry for getting pissy last night. I was just a little upset._

She'd followed this up with a simple, _I love you too. You know I do._

Peter grinned, feeling some of his irritation evaporate. He replied, _Doesn't that just make me the luckiest guy in the world._ He had just hit the send button when he collided with something that let out a surprised squawk and backed away from him.

Peter looked down, and felt his heart sink as he laid eyes on the petite, bespectacled young woman in lab coat in front of him.

"Ah geez, Carlie," he said, holding out a hand to help her right herself. "Sorry. I was a little, uh…preoccupied."

"Oh, that's okay Peter!" Carlie smiled at him, her milky blue eyes shining adoringly up at him from behind her glittery pink glasses. She brushed her mousey brown bangs away from her lenses and said, "Were you texting Mary Jane? God, I bet she's so happy. I didn't see the play last night—I mean obviously I can't afford it—but she was probably the best thing about it!"

People consciously avoided Peter and Carlie as they made their way into the open-aired cafeteria. Peter tried to tell himself that it was because, in bypassing them, they'd get to the fruit buffet faster, but he knew better. If it wasn't Carlie's squeaky voice, it was her whole general demeanor.

"Uh, yeah," Peter said, falling into unfortunate step beside Carlie as they headed for the short-order line. "MJ was really awesome in the play. Of course, I might be showing a bit of a bias." He chuckled, and Carlie let out a peal of high-pitched laughter that made the man behind the counter grimace as he handed Peter his latte.

"God, you're so lucky." Carlie bounced on the balls of her feet. Then, in a display of her underlying neurosis, she sighed, her boney shoulders falling dramatically as she took a grapefruit from the fruit stand. "I was going to get time off to go see Clee in a couple of weeks, but no dice. I hope he'll be okay without me."

Peter wanted to say that, given her husband's twelve life-sentences, Carlie would have plenty of time to keep seeing her precious "Clee." But, not wanting to hurt her feelings, he gave her a bracing smile and said, "Well, I'm sure if you appeal to the higher-ups you might be able to get some time off for the Fourth of July weekend."

"God, I hope so Pete." She smiled at him, and ran her hands through her cropped, mousey hair. "I don't really like taking time off for the Fourth of July, not after that one summer when my grandmother's pitbull got loose and bit my on the ankle. I started crying and screaming in front of everyone at the parade and for the rest of the summer all the kids called me "Snarly Carlie" because of the face I was making."

"Really?" Peter smiled like he had lockjaw and quickly darted his eyes around the cafeteria to find someone to help him. That help came in the form of an all-too familiar face sitting near the window. The young woman gave Peter an exasperated look and then jerked her head to the empty seat opposite her.

"Uh, look Carlie," Peter said with a smile, "I'm going to have to dash. We didn't finish the prototype in time and I want to finish lunch before I starve to death."

Carlie smiled in a way that only made her look all the sadder. "Oh, that's okay Peter. I usually eat lunch in the office since nobody wants to sit with me anyway."

"That's not true." Peter said it because, out of all the staff, there had to be at least a few people who either didn't mind sitting down with Carlie or else didn't know better than to not sit down with her.

"Don't worry about me, Peter. Say hello to Mary Jane for me!" Carlie turned and promptly collided with the recycling bin. Peter winced, but fortunately, one of the kindlier engineers stooped and helped her to her feet.

Peter crossed the cafeteria and sat down across from the woman who'd subtly helped him escape.

"You are way too nice for your own damn good," she said with a shake of her head. "Talking to Mrs. Jeffrey Dahmer in public." She whistled. "You're a better person than I thought you were, Peter."

"Sue me for wanting to show a little empathy. And don't call her that, Darcy."

Darcy shrugged, her eyes glinting mischievously from behind her black glasses. Her long chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and unlike most of the staff, dressed in lab coats or business attire, she was wearing a casual pullover blouse and a sweater. Being part of the more on-the-grounds research department gave Darcy Lewis the opportunity to be more casual than most.

"Why shouldn't I?" Darcy replied with an easy-going smirk.

"Because it's not nice. Carlie's alright…she's just a little lost is all."

Darcy rolled her eyes. "Lost? Girlfriend couldn't find her way out of the woods with a GPS. I mean, yeah, she can be sweet when she's not telling people about the time a garbage truck accidentally uploaded on her. But there ain't a flag in the world red enough or big enough for somebody who willingly gets married to the worst mass-murderer since Albert Fish."

"She just…uh…wanted to show him a little human kindness?"

Darcy gave him a flat look. Peter sighed, downed some of his latte and said, "Yeah, okay, I don't believe me either."

"I should hope so, seeing as how Carlie's hubby is the one who did a number on your best friend."

"If you don't mind me borrowing your expression, there ain't an elephant big enough or a room small enough," Peter said. Carlie having married Cletus Kasady after he'd been put behind bars was an enormous factor in Peter's discomfort around her.

"Then just do what the rest of us do and pretend that you left your cell phone in your lab." Darcy smiled sweetly at Peter.

"She caught my on my cell," Peter reminded her. "And it's easy for you to avoid her seeing as how you're always off chasing the latest weather abnormality for Doctor Foster."

Darcy shrugged. "Jane's a busy gal. She's been looking at, uh…well, other things since she met Thor."

Being reminded of The Avengers made Peter bristle. He quickly gulped down more hot latte and started in on the chicken salad sandwich he'd ordered. Darcy scowled at his reaction but mercifully dropped the subjects of both her employer's errant, Norse boyfriend and Carlie Cooper altogether. They talked about other things for the remainder of their time together—MJ's performance, Darcy's witnessing a firenado in the Ozark mountains and whether or not anything would be done about Hell's Kitchen.

Darcy's phone rang about half an hour into their conversation. She arched an eyebrow. "Neat."

"What? Is there a cosmic hurricane on its way or something?"

"Huh? Oh, no. Ian invited me over for takeout and Netflix. He managed to hack into NASA and wants to chill out and watch the sun rising over China after work." Darcy stowed her things in her backpack. "Which, for me, is pretty much nowsville. See you around, Pete. And watch out for Crazy Carlie."

Peter grimaced. "Have a good one. And stop calling her names, yeah? It's beneath you."

Darcy looked down at her tie-dye Doc Martens. "The floor doesn't look like Carlie. Although it is just as walk-all-overable." With a wicked grin, Darcy sauntered out of the cafeteria. Peter shook his head as he watched her go, and finished his lunch in silence.

He still had twenty-five minutes left on his lunch break, so he decided to scope out some of the other labs. He'd built up a trust with a handful of other scientists since he'd started in the robotics department, and poking into the biology labs for old times sake would be better than sitting in the cafeteria and ruminating again.

The bio labs had been moved to the first basement of Horzion. Taking the elevators in that direction always brought back memories of when the place had been OsCorp. More specifically, it made him think of when he'd run into Gwen Stacy during her days interning for Doctor Curt Connors. Even though Horizon had been almost entirely remodeled, Peter still felt a strange sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he took the elevator to the lower floor.

He got out, alone, in the basement atrium. Nobody was around; most of the scientists were either on lunch or busy working on the next big breakthrough in their various fields. Peter sidled down the hallway, hands tucked into the pockets of his lab coat.

His encounter with Carlie had made him think about Eddie, which only made him feel even guiltier for having been so cold to his best friend the previous night. It was an argument that he'd had with himself over and over again, much as he wrestled with his petulant feelings of disuse when it came to The Avengers elbowing out Spider-Man.

 _It's like being stuck on a hamster wheel_ , Peter thought with a shake of his head. _I keep running around the same thing day after day. It's enough to make a cat bark._

He turned a corner, and then, this time listening to this spider-senses, avoided colliding with a tall, willowy woman with long, black hair and alabaster skin. She gasped, having not noticed Peter, and dropped the leather folder case she held in her hands.

"Oh, Peter, you scared me half to death!" The woman's beautiful, bright blue eyes fluttered. She had long lashes and full, cherry lips.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Banner." Peter stooped and handed her back the folder and the papers that had fallen out of it.

"Peter, we've been through this: even when we're at work you can call me Betty."

"Of course, Doctor Banner." Peter grinned as Betty Banner rolled her eyes. They fell into step beside each other, even though Peter had been making for the opposite direction that the beautiful Doctor Banner had been going. "How's the Mean, Green Fighting Machine?"

Betty rolled her eyes. "Bruce is still shacked up at The Avengers Tower. Apparently he thinks poker and Grey Goose with Tony is better at averting his anger than spending time with his actual wife." Her nostrils flared. "Sometimes I'm surprised he actually agreed to get married. But fighting off an alien invasion changes a person's perspective I suppose."

"Well if that's all it takes then sign me up," Peter muttered.

Betty laughed and gave him a playful swat on the shoulder. "What, and lose one of the brightest minds to walk through the doors of Horizon? I'd blow myself up before I let that happen." Betty stopped him before they reached the elevators. "I'm glad I ran into you, actually."

"Really, why?"

"If you're not too busy tonight I was wondering if you could do me a huge favor. Wilson's extended his medical leave an extra two weeks to recover from his vasectomy." Betty narrowed her eyes in annoyance. "Apparently he didn't listen to the doctor when they told him to refrain from doing…well, uh…whatever it is that might make it take longer to recover from a vasectomy."

Peter screwed up his face in disgust. "I'd as soon as that remain a mystery, especially seeing as how I had a pretty good lunch."

Betty chuckled. "Well, anyway, he was going to go down to the Baxter Building tonight. Reed Richards is doing a demonstration of that dimensional traveling machine of his and I want Horizon to have some eyes on the ground."

Peter stared at Betty in astonishment. "That would be cooler than Christmas in Connecticut, but I'm in the robotics dev department, remember? Isn't Doctor Richards's experiment more about looking for extraterrestrial life?"

"Well, if you're going to nitpick…"

"No! My nit is so not picking, Betty! It's just…well, hell yeah I'll go."

Betty beamed at him. "Fantastic! Besides, there's no guarantee that machine will actually work. And even if it does I'd be surprised if Doctor Richards and his team brought anything back aside from a piece of rock."

Peter's cheer at being chosen to go see what promised to be the biggest development in the scientific community since the invention of the wheel carried him throughout the rest of his day at the lab. The other techs all stared at him as if he'd grown eight extra arms; they'd never seen him in such a good mood before. But he couldn't help it.

He felt vital. Needed. Even if it was from something as workaday as the job that he was paid for, going to the demonstration that night was something separate from both his life as Spider-Man and his personal life. It was his, and his alone.

The sun was arching towards the other side of Manhattan when Peter left Horizon Labs at six o'clock. He shot Mary Jane a quick text, telling her where he would be and at what time he would get home that night.

He took a cab from Seaport towards the Baxter Building. It would have been faster to swing, but after the chase with Mysterio the previous day and having to play a human carriage with Eddie the previous evening, he wanted absolutely nothing to do with Spider-Man unless he could absolutely help it.

The Baxter Building, like Horizon Labs, was part of the growing science and technology scene in New York City. It was a sign of Peter's devotion to all things tech that he was surprised there wasn't a crowd gathered around the outside of the building.

He entered, gave his identification to the receptionist, and was then lead by several security guards towards a flight of stairs leading to a basement.

"This where you keep all of the good stuff?" The security guards, two big burly gorillas in dark shades, simply scowled all the heavier. The whole situation felt slightly out-of-place, given that all that was happening was a simple demonstration.

But when he passed through a set of grey double doors, he realized exactly just how serious this entire situation was.

The basement of the Baxter Building looked more like a military barrack, something not helped by the fact that there were at least three dozen members of the United States military standing around with loaded guns. An array of machines was set up towards the grand spectacle in the middle of the room: several mechanical arms were dismounted from the ceiling around a hexagon made out of Plexiglas.

Peter's mouth was agape as he walked without really knowing where he was going. He'd seen some impressive spectacles in his life, especially after donning the mantle of Spider-Man. This, however, defied even everything that Horizon worked towards in terms of security clearance.

Peter felt a vibration in the air a split second before he side-stepped someone in danger of colliding with him.

"Woah, one side there, TMZ."

Peter blinked and looked up…and then up. The man before him was tall and wiry, with smooth ebony skin and intense brown eyes. When he saw the look of shock on Peter's face, he let out a laugh, revealing perfect, pearly white teeth. "Just messing with you, man. Nothing here to see that would get Perez Hilton's rocks off."

"I don't know," Peter said, eyeing the machine in the middle of the room. "I think that little doodad over there looks like it might be into the Beverly Hills party scene."

"Hm," the guy said, surveying Peter like an interesting species of insect, "you're too quick with your words to be a razzi. Lemme guess…you've got a science podcast, right?"

"Close, but no cigar."

"Damn. I could sure go for a nice Macanudo right about now."

"Macanudo? Wow. This place pays pretty high class for a basement project."

Again, the guy laughed. There was something genuinely friendly about him. Peter guessed that he was at least around his age, give or take a few years. He was dressed in faded grey overalls, which had various oil splatters on them.

"Seriously though," the guy sobered up. "Where are you from? The fatigues around here are just itching to shoot at someone, even if they are just a reporter."

"Not a reporter," Peter said. "Just an observer. I'm from Horizon Labs. One of the doctors there said it would be worth my while checking this out. And I've gotta admit, it looks right up my alley."

Before the man could reply, a young blonde woman approached him, and gave him a pot shot to the shoulder. "Johnny, ten minutes ago I didn't see you doing some last-minute coding, and you said you'd get right on it. Now you're chatting it up with civvies."

"It's only 'cause I love doing the opposite of what you say, Susie." Johnny smirked, and walked away. He looked over his shoulder at Peter and called out, "Hit me up after. We could get a drink and shoot the shit."

The woman called Susan rolled her eyes. She was also wearing a pair of overalls, although they were nowhere near as dirty as Johnny's. "Sorry about that," she said, motioning for Peter to follow her towards a cluster of sober suited spectators. "My brother couldn't cut it in stand-up so we gave him a job here."

"No sweat. Although he seems like he'd make a killing at _The Creek and the Cave_."

"Better that than drag racing along an aircraft carrier." Peter chuckled at Susan's words, and then nearly collided with her when he saw Eddie Brock standing among the group of onlookers. "The demonstration should begin in a few minutes," Susan said to the crowd at large. "Remember, this isn't guaranteed to work, so Dr. Richards and Dr. Grimm would really appreciate it if you could hold the rotten vegetables."

A chuckle rippled through the group, and Peter took the opportunity to squeeze himself between two women from _Discover_ magazine and get closer to Eddie.

"Glad to see you back on your feet," Peter said under his breath. Eddie started, evidently not having seen Peter until that moment. "Oh good," Peter muttered, "your eyes are only bloodshot from lack of sleep. At least you're looking at me clearly." In the back of his mind, something gave him a mental kick to the gut. It was a low thing to say to his best friend, and he immediately regretted it.

"What are you doing here?" Eddie hissed, choosing to ignore Peter's uncalled for diatribe.

The lights in the massive basement began to dim; the demonstration would start soon. Peter moved closer to Eddie, relieved that he didn't smell like anything other than his choice of deodorant. "Dr. Banner wanted me to take someone's place. I couldn't pass this up. It's like Christmas. Or in your case, a bubble bath with Jessica Biel and Mila Kunis. What are you doing here?"

"J.J. wants to know where these two kids got their funding from. He thinks there's some kind of Jesse Ventura levels of conspiracy going on here…that, and he probably wants a few photos when this whole thing blows up in their face."

"And I'm the one being mistaken for the paparazzi," Peter muttered. He gazed at the complicated machine, which was really bare bones; tubes and wires were exposed, and there was a length of electrical tape covering one point of the machine. "I think this is fascinating."

A tiny smile graced Eddie's lips. "Try not to get too excited," he whispered. Two men walked towards the machine in the middle of the room. "I don't have a change of tighty-whities on me."

"Why does your mind always go to my underwear? You trying to tell me something, Brock?"

"Yeah, that you're easy."

They both laughed. The banter had returned, and Peter took that as a sign that he didn't feel as heinous towards his best friend as he'd really thought.

A spotlight over the machine in the middle of the room was thrown on. Two men walked towards it, both dressed in the same grey overalls that Johnny and Susan had ben wearing.

"Uh…hello." The smaller of the two men was speaking into a microphone. His eyes were wide, his skin pallid. He seemed to be sweating, even though the lights cast from above weren't overwhelmingly bright. Peter recognized a similarity in the young man—again, who seemed to be no more than five years older than he was. He remembered being a petrified kid asked to speak in front of the class, and wanting the ground to give way and swallow him forever.

"I'm, uh…I'm Dr. Reed Richards. This is my colleague Dr. Ben Grimm—

Ben Grimm looked like he belonged more at an MMA fight than a science demonstration. He was tall; broad shouldered, and had a crew cut. He surveyed the spectators with an air of disinterest, and when Dr. Richards again fumbled through his words, rolled his eyes and wrested the microphone away from him.

"We've been working on this machine all our lives," Ben said. Reed looked relieved that his colleague had taken the heat off of him. "And with help from the Baxter Foundation—as well as Professor Storm—we're proud to unveil this uh…little demonstration."

A low hum filled the room. Peter noticed several technicians, including Johnny, hurriedly running through a panel of computers off to the side of the big machine.

"We're in prototype right now," Ben continued. "But the Quantum Gate has undergone a lot of tests up to this point, and now we'll see if it actually does what Dr. Richards and I have been hoping for—dimensional travel."

A murmur ran through the spectators. Several of the assembled soldiers looked mildly amused or even skeptical.

"Now, we're not going to be going through ourselves," Ben went on. Dr. Richards retrieved a large remote control from a table to the side of the machine. "We have a little mechanical guinea pig for that."

From behind the machine, a small robot, about the size of a fourth grader, hovered along the floor. It was white, moved along by what appeared to be small rockets at the legs. It had two spindly arms, ending in strong pincers, and, most disturbingly, a smiling face on the black screen that served as a head.

"Well there's something you don't see every day," Eddie said to Peter as the crowd gasped in disbelief.

"This is our Humanoid Experimental Robot," Dr. Richards explained. "He's, ah…he's just a B-type, with integrated electronics, but he'll be the one going into whatever dimension the Quantum Gate opens."

Peter arched his eyebrows. He hadn't expected this, and he found himself wishing that he still had his trusty old camera from his _Daily Bugle_ days. In conjunction with the Quantum Gate, Richards and Grimm's little robot was a sophisticated piece of machinery, especially given that it was created by two university students.

The humming grew louder. The basement began to vibrate with electronic energy. A mellow white light grew at the base of the Quantum Gate. The mechanical arms around the center of the machine began to whir, faster and faster like a spinning top. Richards and Grimm were standing at the very edge of the area occupied by the Quantum Gate, both of them squinting. Slowly, a white sphere began to grow in the middle of the rapidly rotating arms. It expanded outwards, growing to the size of a hula-hoop. Reed Richards directed the hovering robot towards the light, and Peter felt a thrill spike through him at the notion of the little simulacrum disappearing into the unknown. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Eddie tighten his grip on his cane, his eyes focused on the scene playing out in front of them.

The robot disappeared in the blink of an eye, and the crowd gasped—it was more like being at a circus performance than a professional science demonstration.

"Now," Ben said, "if everything goes right and the robot doesn't get clobbered, he'll be coming back with a sample of another planet or even another dimension."

The crowd waited with baited breath. Peter found himself transfixed by the shimmering white tear in reality in the middle of the room. It seemed so…well, unreal to him that he was actually bearing witness to something this monumental.

Seconds ticked by. Several of the military guard shifted awkwardly as they waited. The people around Peter and Eddie continued to stare at the rift the Quantum Gate had created. Peter wondered exactly where the little robot had gone, and what it would bring back. Unbidden images of enormous, alien snakes flashed through his mind, and he cracked his knuckles subconsciously. If it did come down to a fight, he would be more than ready, but he didn't really hold to his chances against the kinds of things that had flattened Hell's Kitchen all those months ago, especially not somewhere so enclosed as the basement of the Baxter Building.

Reed and Ben glanced at one another; Reed shifted from foot to foot. It had been minutes since the robot had disappeared. People were starting to get anxious, and Peter himself was worried for the friendly looking little machine that had gone wandering to an as-yet unexplored part of space or reality.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Susan hurry towards Reed and Ben, looking worried.

"Typical," Eddie muttered, "we get here for this big development in the field of science and all we end up with is a rip-off of Wall-E and a bad light show."

Peter rolled his edge, suppressing the urge to hit Eddie on the back of the head for saying something so needlessly crass. He tried to remind himself that his friend had a career stake in the success of this demonstration, but the urge to fight that battle died. Mental brawls were starting to tear him down, and if he kept it up he'd likely get an aneurysm before he saw his twenty-fourth birthday.

A couple of the assembled onlookers broke away from the circle, evidently under the impression that the demonstration was a bust. Ben Grimm and Reed Richards both began to look somewhat panic-stricken. Susan ushered Johnny over, and the young man peered at several of the exposed tubes and wires of the Quantum Gate, his brows furrowed. An atmosphere of something having gone wrong filled the room, and people began to break out into muttering conversations.

Then, just when it seemed like the two young doctors were going to pull the plug on the entire operation, the robot hovered back through the opalescent rent in the air.

For a moment, everyone stared. Then there was a thunder of applause, and Johnny hurried back to the control panel. The humming in the room died away as the white circle collapsed inward on itself.

"That's the best bad light show I've ever seen!" Peter gave Eddie an affectionate shot to the back that sent the other man staggering forward. "Ah shit. Sorry about that man."

Eddie shrugged, but his face was still tinged pink with embarrassment. "Yeah," he said. "Great light show. Still doesn't explain how they got all the bits and bobs to put this little outfit together."

Peter rolled his eyes. "There he is, ladies and gentlemen," he said to the cheering spectators around, "the wonder reporter back in action."

Before Eddie could answer, Ben Grimm raised his hand for silence, and the onlookers, other technicians and military personnel quieted. "Definitely a success," Ben said, a broad grin on his face. "Our little friend brought something back."

Johnny came forward, his hands encased in a pair of thick black gloves. Peter watched as the man pressed a button on the wrists of the gloves. The palms and fingers glowed blue; he approached the robot, which was holding something small and black and shining in its pincer. Johnny held his hands over the alien object, and Peter smirked.

The tech was wearing a pair of Stark Industries ManipuTech gloves, especially designed for those working in the science field. His hands covered thusly, Johnny was protecting himself from anything that risked contamination.

The space rock—if that was really what it was—hovered between Johnny's hands, turning over itself like a pebble in a powerful current. It was about the size of an apple, and surprisingly thick.

"Looks like a piece of dog crap," Eddie muttered.

Peter shook his head. "You've been hanging around Jameson too long, Eddie. That colorful language is starting to rub off on you."

A beaming Reed Richards looked at the crowd, and Peter fully appreciated just how young the guy actually was now that he was smiling. It was a face that screamed success, and for a moment Peter felt a strange thread of kindredness with the young scientist.

A split second later, that warm feeling was replaced by an all-encompassing dread as he felt the air above him vibrate with the intensity of an earthquake. Something bad was coming, something very bad and very explosive.

Relying on instinct, Peter grabbed Eddie by the waist and lunged the both of them across the room. They hit the floor, Eddie grunting, his cane flying out of his hand and sliding across the concrete to hit the opposite wall.

He didn't even have time to roll over before the ceiling three feet from where he'd been standing exploded, raining dust and rock down on the unsuspecting crowd.

 _Can't even go out for to a science show without the bad guys showing up_ , Peter thought bitterly.


	4. Prime

In terms of baddies, the two dozen or so men and women who rappelled through the makeshift portal in the roof weren't anything to sneeze at, at least as far as Peter was concerned. They were dressed in black, military style fatigues; face hidden behind thick goggles and black helmets. Nothing he hadn't seen on a swing through The Bronx, least of all after the alien invasion had turned it into District Twelve. Of more immediate concern to him were the EVO-3's they all touted and the other guns strapped to their hips and legs.

"God damn it," Peter muttered. He'd rolled with Eddie behind the side of the Quantum Gate. For all intents and purposes they were hidden from view.

Eddie, frozen and flattened with his nose to the concrete beneath him, whispered back, "That better be a spare web cartridge in your pocket."

A tall man started barking orders. The crowd of terrified scientists and onlookers were rounded up in a line at one end of the observation hangar. Peter noticed Johnny Storm hastily close his gloved fist around the stone that had been retrieved by the little robot, which, sadly, lay crushed beneath some rubble that had fallen from the ceiling.

"Plans?" Eddie hissed as he righted himself against the wall.

"Working on it."

"Please tell me your wearing your leotard under those day clothes."

Peter didn't reply, which was all Eddie needed. Of course, not having swung to Horizon Labs, and not having any inclination to patrol the streets that night, he'd gone commando in terms of his Spider-Man suit.

Cautiously, Peter crept towards the edge of the dimension-traveling machine. Eddie quickly sat up straighter, gritting his teeth at the pain the effort put on his body. Peering around the corner, Peter noticed that several of the military guard was now kneeling on the ground, arms behind their heads. There were at least three of the black-suited goons to a soldier.

"WHERE IS IT?" One of the goons—they looked to be the leader of the bunch—shouted into the face of one of the other scientists. Peter noticed the Storm siblings glance towards the stone-faced Ben Grimm for some kind of direction. Peter would certainly have gravitated towards the hulking man if he'd been in their shoes.

"They're serious, huh?" Eddie whispered, and Peter nodded. There was no doubt in his mind that whoever these people were—more specifically, whoever it was that they worked for—wouldn't think twice about pumping lead into their hostages to get what they wanted.

He had his web shooters on him. But he couldn't remember if he'd filled them after coming back from Eddie's the previous night. In any case, if the thugs saw a civilian using Spider-Man's juice, then there would be bigger things to worry about than whether or not they got their hands on the space rock.

"Peter."

Eddie's voice was as calm as the eye of a hurricane. Peter looked around the corner again and saw one of the goons cold-clock a soldier on the back of the head. The man crumpled to the floor; several of the hostages gasped.

"Peter!"

" _What_?" He rounded on Eddie, who was staring at the sleek, silver-knobbed cane that had been flung across the floor. Something in Eddie's steel-grey gaze told Peter that there was more to his friend's cane than just a walking aid.

 _Better be a bazooka_ , Peter thought. Against his better judgment, he fired a line of webbing at the cane and jerked it across the floor. The sharp scrape of silver and ebony against concrete was, mercifully, not loud enough to draw the attention of the intruders. But the slight sound still made Peter hiss.

"You'd better know what you're doing," Peter muttered as Eddie snatched the cane off his line.

His friend looked at him flatly. "Wanna find another place to prove yourself there, Mister Insecurity?"

"Pot meet kettle." The acrimony was growing again, and not only was Peter not in the mood for it, but there really were more important things going on. Eddie sighed, the fight going out of him. And once again, Peter felt the acute guilt at having given his best friend such a low blow.

But they didn't have time for such petty squabbling, not when the goons on the other side of the Quantum Gate were gunning for blood. Peter heard someone—it sounded like Susan Storm—gasp out the name "Reed!" Peter grimaced, and heard a sharp thwack of metal likely connecting with the back of someone's skull. Ben Grimm let out an angry roar.

"Get their attention," Eddie hissed. "And I really hope you're a better actor than you are a kisser."

"Thought you weren't going to bring that up," Peter muttered with a grin. This was good. This was action. Eddie grabbed at his ankle, and Peter understood exactly what it was that his friend was planning on doing. Abandoning all pretense, Peter took a deep breath and yelled in the best panic stricken voice he could muster, "SOMEBODY HELP! OH, GOD, HELP!"

He may well have shot off a berretta. The sounds of fighting ceased. Boots pounded across the concrete floor towards the spot where Peter and Eddie were hidden.

"How many?" Eddie asked.

"About six," Peter replied. A moment later his estimate was proven all too true as six black-suited thugs rounded the corner. Peter had just enough time to notice the intricate red patch sewn into the side of their fatigues before he was grabbed roughly by the back of the neck.

"What the hell is going on?"

"My friend!" Peter said in his best-fake sob. Two of the thugs had seized Eddie by the arms but did not pull him up. "I think his leg is broken."

"Get them out of here," one of the goons barked. The two others pulled Eddie to his feet.

Quick as lightning, Eddie pressed some kind of switch on the silver knob of his cane. The black shell of the shaft fell away. With surprising speed, Eddie whacked both of the thugs in the solar plexus. Blue light flashed as an immense electric pulse discharged from the cane and both of the thugs went down.

Peter had just enough time to gape at Eddie before the three thugs holding him charged. Realizing that his friend could only do so much, Peter webbed their feet. Eddie followed suit with a shot to the head on each, and they to joined their fellows.

The final goon made to cry out, but Peter webbed his mouth shut and socked him in the jaw.

"Aren't you just full of surprises," Peter said.

Eddie shrugged. "What can I say? I don't like to give everything away on the first date."

More footsteps were thundering towards them. They'd drawn attention away from the hostages, which was just as well. Peter and Eddie nodded to each other; Peter launched himself out into the open, facing a line of at least nine of thugs.

They didn't stop to ask questions. Gunfire sounded, and the frozen spell that had held the hostages broke. Pandemonium broke out. Most ran for the stairs; some made it there, others were held back by the thugs remaining on guard. As Peter dodged volley after volley of bullets, he saw Reed Richards lying unconscious on the floor. Johnny was kneeling by him, trying desperately to rouse him. Sue Storm, much to Peter's surprise and admiration, was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with one of the thugs near the stairwell; Ben Grimm, blood oozing from a wound on his temple, was currently taking on three of the black-suited bastards at once, and doing a damn good job at clobbering them.

 _They're fantastic_ , Peter thought as he flipped onto his hands and knocked out two at once with a roundhouse rebound. _Maybe I can start my own Avengers unit with them?_

His spider-senses were sounding in an endless stream, but as he knocked yet another thug to the ground, he felt a new note to the symphony of warning whistles.

And it was coming from behind him.

He flattened himself to the floor, and the next second his blood went cold as ice.

Eddie had been doing his best with the electrical pulses wired into his specially outfitted cane. But evidently it hadn't been enough because he'd grabbed one of the Rugers that the goons carried in their hip holsters and currently had it trained on the assassin bearing down directly behind where Peter was pressed into the concrete floor.

And the cold look in his friend's eyes told Peter that Eddie had every intention of firing the weapon.

"NO!" The bullet whizzed. With lightning fast reflexes, Peter managed to web the bullet with one hand and the gun from Eddie's with another. He jerked the weapon backwards, and it hit the thug behind him in the face with the force of a cement block. The goon went down, never to know that he'd just seen a civilian use one of Spider-Man's signature moves.

Peter got to his feet, staring in horror at Eddie, who looked only somewhat confused. Before Peter could even begin to ask what the hell was wrong with the other man, he heard Johnny Storm let out a shout of frustration and pain.

Ben Grimm had been felled; Susan had bested her opponent, but hadn't been able to help her brother, who was being held by the throat. The thug choking him to death noticed the specially outfitted glove covering Johnny's hand. Without any preamble, the brute snapped Johnny's wrist backwards. Johnny cried out in pain and the shiny, obsidian stone fell to the concrete floor with a clatter.

It could have been because of his spider-senses. It could have been because he'd seen so much at that point that he knew the signs of danger before they presented themselves. But as the extraterrestrial ingot fell to the ground with a non-descript thud, Peter got the feeling that something incredibly bad was about to come of it.

Before he could so much as react to this impulse, a roar like thunder filled the concrete hanger. Peter hit the ground; Eddie, still in that frightening, blank trance, wasn't prepared for the noise. He staggered and fell right on top of one of the unconscious thugs.

A second later a massive bolt of lightning filled the room. There was a gust of Arctic wind, and from the hole in the ceiling descended a powerful figure garbed in blue and silver. The man's luscious blonde hair flowed in the stormy winds keeping him aloft; a long red cape fluttered regally behind him. He touched down, staring in naked anger at the remaining black-suited super-soldiers.

The remaining thugs fired blindly at the newcomer. Ben Grimm crawled across the ground and helped the now-roused and confused Reed Richards to his feet. But Johnny, holding his wrist and supported by his sister, wasn't about to go anywhere. He kept screaming, "the stone, the stone," but Susan didn't seem to think it of any importance.

"Who's the chick with the hammer?" Eddie yelled above the shouts, gunfire and rolling thunder.

 _Just your average Norse god come to Earth, and also member of The Avengers who just conveniently happened to show up_ , Peter thought derisively. "I don't know," he shouted back, "but I'm glad she's on our side. C'mon, we have to get the hell out of here!" _And let The Avengers save the day…again_.

Eddie started to say something in response, but Peter didn't want to risk his friend becoming Swiss cheese. Keeping low, he scooped Eddie up and flung him over his shoulder for the second time in twenty-four hours. Eddie struggled and kicked and practically screamed, but Peter was too concerned with getting them to safety. The Storm's, Reed Richards and Ben Grimm had already disappeared up the stairs with the rest of the hostages. Freedom was so close at hand…

"MY CANE!" Eddie screamed. "PETE, PLEASE-"

Halfway up the staircase, Peter froze. In spite of the fact that he'd recently seen Eddie on the verge of killing another human being, there was something so plaintive and pathetic in his best friend's pleading. Sighing, Peter snapped a chunk out of the bannister, set Eddie on the ground and handed him the broken piece of metal.

With the air of one who'd simply left the stove on, Peter said brightly, "See you on the flip side." Eddie stared at him in disbelief, but didn't need telling twice. He hobbled up the remainder of the stairs, using the piece of the railing as a make-shift crutch.

Peter hurried back down towards the hanger. Despite Thor's immense powers, the battle was still in full swing. A part of him wanted nothing more than to dive right in and show the pretty-boy Avenger that he wasn't the only hero in the Baxter Building. But he didn't have his costume; he'd already risked enough by moving in ways no normal human should have moved when he'd been in the thick of the fray.

This was just to get Eddie's cane—the one thing that afforded him some dignity in the state that he was in. A quick pop in and out and then Peter would be—

His spider-sense went off the second he was on the bottommost step. The tremor in the air was so immense that Peter knew there was no chance he was going to be able to dodge what happened next without experiencing any pain. Grimacing, he took the path of least resistance and dove for the floor of the hangar. A split-second later the stairway exploded—Thor had misaimed a bolt of lightning. Rocks and dust filled the air. His eyes streaming, Peter tried to crawl away and get a sense of his surroundings.

The explosion had torn a hole straight through the wall and into the lab beyond. Peter crawled to the safety of the space beneath one of the computer desks, listening to Thor engaged in his continuous combat with the remainder of the black-suited goons.

A loud roar like a wounded bull made Peter peer around the corner of his hiding space. He had just enough time to see the Asgardian's hammer go sailing through the air right towards his face before he dove for cover once more. The lethal projectile whooshed through the lab; it nicked something on the rubble-strewn ground, something that split down the middle, but did nothing to stop the mighty hammer in its trajectory. With an ear-splitting crack, the legendary weapon of the God of Thunder embedded itself in the wall across the room.

There was a shout of triumph, and the sound of something being fired. Peter heard Thor groan. More muffled shots sounded. Peter dared to look again and saw that the hulking hero had fallen to the ground, pierced with what appeared to be at least ten elephant tranquilizers.

 _Bad_ , Peter thought. _Bad, bad, bad._

"Where's his hammer?" One of the thugs barked.

"It went off into that room, boss."

"Go get it. We're taking it back to base."

"Hail Hydra."

"You three—find that goddamn stone."

Hydra? Where the hell did these people come up with their names? Whatever the reason was, Peter didn't really have the time or opportunity to pontificate on it. Several of the goons were walking across the rubble towards the blown-open lab. And Peter was quite sure that he wouldn't be able to make as good of a getaway as he had before.

 _Get up, you big lug_ , he thought, hoping that he could somehow pray Thor back into fighting form. _I believe in fairies, I believe in fairies. Can't really clap my hands, but I believe._

The footsteps were getting closer. They were going to find him.

He could trip them up with webbing. From there it would simply be a matter of moving fast and finding some way to cover his face. This plan in place, Peter aimed his wrist at the opposite wall.

His webbing failed. He'd run out because he hadn't remembered to refill after his trip from the theater to Eddie's apartment and back to Queens. Whatever he'd left over had been used up in the battle near the Quantum Gate.

Peter's disbelief gave way to anger so acute that it almost shocked him.

Of course The Avengers couldn't clean up after themselves in this instance. Of course he had to go forgetting his damn costume. Of course Eddie had to be so pathetic that he couldn't just get a new cane. The ugly, eclipsing grips of whatever had had Peter for the last several months clutched at him again. He felt a rage towards everything in the room unlike anything he'd ever known. It blurred his vision, set his pulse racing.

The thugs were whispering now. Only their voices sounded too far away. Peter cracked his eyes open and noticed something creeping across the floor right towards him. It looked like oil; only it was too shiny, too smooth. Too viscous. And it wasn't so much as spreading as it was creeping across the floor. His gaze traveling from it to the rocks around it, Peter saw the space rock that the robot had retrieved under some pieces of rubble. It was cracked down the middle like a broken walnut. Thor's hammer had hit it when it had gone sailing through the air, and had split it open.

Peter felt his heart race. Not only were the black-suited soldiers scouring the lab around him for the hammer, now he was sitting duck for some funky alien oil that was whispering to him.

 _need you, found you, help you, save you, make you stronger._

The whisper was almost indistinct, like rushing wind. And yet it didn't sound threatening or unpleasant. Peter heard it in his ears and his head at the same time, as if it were talking to him and peeking into his mind all at once.

 _friend, need a friend, you're my friend, know what you are._

 _This is insane,_ Peter thought. He could hear the thugs shifting through the desks and rock fragments around him as they waded through the wreckage towards Thor's hammer. He didn't know what was going to happen now, only that if they got their hands on the ancient hammer that it would be disastrous for the entire planet and beyond.

The creeping mass was at Peter's shoes now.

It would help him. Make him better like it had promised. Only Peter wasn't sure if that's what he wanted.

Before he could so much as breathe or cry out, the obsidian sludge was crawling up his sneakers. The second it made contact with his skin, Peter felt all his doubts vanish. The mass spread over his body, seeping pore-deep, and with it came a feeling of absolute strength and power unlike anything else. Not even the bite that had given him his powers compared to the raw rush of adrenaline that shot through Peter's veins. He could hear the alien being, not just in his head, but against his very skin, singing to him in triumph.

Yes, they were going to be friends. They were going to help each other. Peter would let it live here on him and it would give him things the likes of which he'd never known. It was showing him where it came from—some cosmic space full of nebulas and galaxies that he would never know. And it was seeing him—his pain, his losses: Uncle Ben, Gwen Stacy. His failure at not having saved Eddie from Cletus Kasady; his feelings of inadequacy in his own life…and it saw Spider-Man. Saw what he needed most at this critical point.

Peter didn't know that his eyes had been closed until he opened them. He was seeing everything around him clearer, sharper. It wasn't dark and dusty; it was bright as high noon and clear. He could feel the heat radiating off of the goons; feel the ancient magic stemming from Thor's hammer as they stepped towards it. And he wasn't afraid, wasn't helpless.

He was deadly and he was powerful.

He broke through the desk that he'd been hiding under like a terrified child as easily as if it were tissue paper. The goons whirled around. He raised both his wrists and fired black lines like webbing at the two on the side. With a jerk, he sent them flying through the air and into the walls. The third in the middle fumbled for their firearm.

With a smirk, Peter leaped through the air feet first and kicked the thug square in the chest, bashing them against the handle of Thor's hammer.

He felt a vibration, not in his head they way he did with his spider-sense, but all throughout his body. The handful of thugs in the hangar had drawn their weapons.

But they weren't going to succeed because he was

 _faster, better, stronger, smarter_

running for them. He webbed their legs, knocking the feet out from underneath them. He fired more webs as the poor saps fell through the air. He caught them like

 _flies, juicy flies to eat and chew_

they weighed nothing and sent them headfirst into the walls and the floor and each other. One made the mistake of trying to fire a gun. Peter fired a line of his new black webbing so thin and so accurately that it gummed up the nose of the firearm. The gun backfired, exploding in the bastard's hand, sending him howling to the ground in pain as he clutched at the bloody stumps of his fingers.

This was

 _perfection, unification, symbiosis_

Yes. That was it. He was feeding his new life form, letting it live on this alien planet while it in turn helped him outclass any other who tried to best him.

Spider-Man flexed his hands. He was suited completely in black now, the life form having covered him head to toe in sleek, unobstructed black. There was even a shock of a white spider across his chest. This being knew him well, quelling the tide of self-loathing and resentment that had been threatening to swallow him whole since April.

A groan made Spider-Man remember that Thor was still half-paralyzed on the floor.

He eyed the Avenger, feeling

 _higher, better, superior_

as if he could leave the god where he was just to prove himself. To prove that New York City didn't need the ragtag group of heroes that had come out of nowhere—had risen in the eyes of the public while he'd been left to be castigated by the likes of J. Jonah Jameson.

Spider-Man shook his head. He didn't need those kinds of thoughts. And it would be nothing more than sheer evil cowardice for him to leave Thor in such a vulnerable position. He pulled each and every one of the tranquilizer darts out of the god's body. Thor groaned again.

 _siphon, show him, poison, venom_

Yes. Why couldn't he suck the tranquilizer out? Black tendrils spread from Spider-Man's improved, living suit. They hovered inches from Thor's body, swaying like poisonous sea anemone and soon enough, the acid-colored tranquilizer began to seep from the god's pores. The tendrils drank up the substance, each alien molecule overcoming the effects and devouring the chemical cocktail of poison and sedatives.

Thor gasped, and stared up at his midnight-colored rescuer. Spider-Man saw his own white eyes reflected in the god's cool blue ones. What had once been sophisticated lenses narrowed as if they were really were organic, expressive things.

"Tell them," Spider-Man said, and he heard his voice vibrate on his own skin, "tell every single one of them that this is _my_ city. You can save the rest of the world, but you leave New York City to me. You—

 _pathetic, weak, broken, nothing_

Spider-Man closed his eyes as the angry side of his inner voice tried to surface. Just because he'd proven himself where Thor had failed didn't make him any less vital.

 _footsteps, danger, intruders_

Spider-Man righted himself just in time to see a team of people dressed in blue uniforms race down the stairs. Stopping at the blown off remainder of the last few steps, they stared in shock at the sight before them: Thor, likely the most powerful member of The Avengers, on his knees in front of the sleek, black Spider-Man.

"That's my exit cue," Spider-Man said. He fired an endless stream of black webbing through the hole in the ceiling that Thor had made. He didn't have to even propel himself off of the ground now—the organism that his suit had become simply pulled him along the line at top speed. Before he cleared the crater in the floor overhead, he fired one last line down to the demolished and body-strewn hangar.

He'd almost forgotten to retrieve Eddie's cane before making his exit.

* * *

 **A/N: I don't normally include Author's Notes anymore, but I need to explain myself.**

 **I was prepared to give this story up for dead, mostly because the cancellation of TASM movies really left a bad taste in my mouth for the superhero genre. That, and everyone is going out of their gourd over Tom Holland, so I figured that nobody cared for those of us who liked the other duology. I really don't care for how "young" they're making Peter act in the MCU. He was in high school in the comics, yes, but the high school aspect was so not the focus of the story being told. Otherwise it would have been "The Amazing Peter Parker, Who is Also Sometimes Spider-Man."  
**

 **As convoluted as the Marc Webb movies were, they had a lot of great potential that Sony wasted. So, I'm going to try to finish this out as close to what I had planned when I started it.**

 **Just for those of us out there who would like to see an interpretation of how things could have played out.**


	5. Superior

_speed, height, power, darkness_

Spider-Man had never known a simple glide through the streets to be so sublime. He could hear better, see every passing light like a streak of galaxy come to Earth. His whole body rippled with a magnetic energy. This was magnificent— _he_ was magnificent. And his rescuing of one of Earth's Mightiest Heroes was only the beginning. He could feel it in his bones—no longer was he just Spider-Man, he was

 _unity, host, carrier,_

part of the universe now. Something incredible lived on his skin, carried him through the night faster than he'd ever been before.

His spider-sense, so attuned after years of use and practice, was almost on a telepathic level now. He swung low, racing the traffic and delighting in the stares and shrieks of the nighttime pedestrians.

 _Watch me_ , he thought, and executed a perfect mid-air somersault before coming to rest on one of the many signs and billboards that lit up Broadway. The people stopped and pointed, many of them grabbing their cellphones to take photographs or videos.

It had been so long since they'd noticed him. So long since they'd appreciated that he was

 _hero, savior, love me, see me_

one of the many who protected them from harm. Excited by a wild, adolescent impulse, he leapt high into the air, and fired several black webs at the space between the signs opposite him. The webbing didn't so much as land in such a way that formed a perfect spidery tapestry as it moved itself into the fine threads of an obsidian spider's web. The people below applauded and cheered, their adoration growing even more so as the hero fell gracefully through the air and landed in a perfect pose.

Even as Spider-Man took in their adulation, he felt the new tremor in his senses—the alert of something wrong happening nearby. Quick as lightning, he leapt from the bright lights of Broadway; the symbiote attached to his body knew exactly what points he wanted to cling to. Webs in endless supply took him through the streets and alleys. He saw through the darkness of the maze of bystreets; felt the heat and the panic and the power of at least six people harassing a young couple.

 _cowards, cattle, stop them,_

Yes. Yes, he had to stop them. Crime in this city wasn't to be abided, not on his watch. Spider-Man melted into the shadows, crawling along the filthy brick walls without a sound. He could hear the scum, their voices echoing as they taunted their terrified prey.

They were nearing the end of the alley, going towards the mass of people moving along East 50th. But they wouldn't stop. The gang wouldn't relent; they were too excited, too aroused on the fear that invaded every pore of the symbiote's skin. It was rank, and made Spider-Man sick.

He crawled along the wall and was over the spot where the men and women were crowding in around their victims. He only had to

 _fire, web, crush them,_

think and the webs shot out of his wrists quick as lightning. He jerked the gangsters back and slammed them into the ground so fast that neither they nor their intended targets knew what it was that had happened.

But it wasn't enough. Some of the gangsters were still squirming. They wouldn't learn. They would

 _get up, do it again, hurt people_

Yes. Like the man who'd killed Uncle Ben. Like Harry Osborn and Otto Octavius. Spider-Man's blood boiled at the memory, at the injustice. Innocent people being

 _slaughtered, taken, destroyed_

victim to pathetic scum like this. Not anymore. Not with the new powers bestowed upon the one person who had always sacrificed everything to keep the innocent safe.

Spider-Man propelled himself off of the alley wall. He was nothing more than a phantom blur to the stunned and relieved coupled whose lives he had saved. Weightless, he landed in the midst of the filthy alley, feet from the stunned and stirring gang. The black webbing receded from their bodies and back into the black suit over Spider-Man's. Behind him, the young couple seemed frozen in horror, leaving a wide berth between their friendly neighborhood hero and the rough looking bunch now struggling to stand even as they stared.

"Get up!" Spider-Man shouted. Another line of web hit the biggest square in the chest. He jerked the man to his feet and tugged the bastard towards him. He could smell the fear rolling off the man, see the confused terror in his beady eyes

 _pathetic, monster, coward,_

"You think you can just do these things to people?" Spider-Man shouted. He had the man right where he wanted him, and let fly a punch so hard that the gangbanger did a full rotation before falling over. "You just take and take and take, don't you?"

Several other people had gathered at the mouth of the alley, watching in perverse excitement at the beatdown to

 _watch me, watch him, watch us, justice_

lay down the low.

Two of the crooks jumped at him. Spider-Man moved before they were even close to being on them, his foot connecting with the jaw of one before he took out the other with a back handspring shot to the chest. The impact sent both flying farther back than he'd ever been able to send a crook before, and he hadn't even been using his full strength.

"Two for the price of one, huh? Gosh, don't I feel like the prettiest belle at the ball."

 _behind, danger, fire, loud_

Spider-Man spun around, webbed the glock out of the perp's hand and then fired a blob of inky black at his would-be assailant's face.

"I hate guns." Spider-Man didn't even have to exert any pressure as he bent the firearm into a ball of twisted metal.

Praise swelled from the crowd like a tide. Spider-Man felt the warm adoration of it, scorching and exquisite like the perfect ray of sunlight.

"Yeah Spidey!"

"Kick their asses man!"

"Oh God, his new costume is so freaking sexy!"

 _They still need me_ , Spider Man thought as he pulled yet another thug towards him and knocked them out cold with a sock to the middle of the face. _They actually remember that they still need me._

 _need_ us _, helping you, we're helping you and you_

 _Yes, us_ , Spider-Man thought. _Without you-_

 _without me? don't leave me, need you, need us_

One of the remaining gangsters pulled a knife. Spider-Man smirked, and something of that must have scared the gang and the people gathered something fierce. They all gasped and backed away.

"I'll show you fear," Spider-Man said. He webbed the knife out of the crook's hand, and then flung it back at the man's boots. "If I ever catch you doing that again, it will be your last. I'll—

 _silence you, eat you, devour you_

Spider-Man froze, the disturbing track that his thoughts had taken stealing his adrenaline high. He stared around at the gathered crowd; most of them still looked impressed. Indeed, a few were even whistling and egging him on. But now that he was looking closely, he could also see the shock and disbelief on the faces of some—especially of the two people he'd rescued.

They were scared of him.

 _What am I doing_? He thought. Hastily he webbed the last standing gangster to the ground. Too much damn excitement. He launched himself into the air and webbed his way down the streets again. His body vibrated as he heard the cars and the people and the music; felt their fear and their languish and arousal.

 _help them, save them, need you, need me,_

 _Not right now_ , Peter thought with a scowl. _Not like that, capiche? I do things a certain way—we do things a certain way._

A tremor ran through the symbiote.

 _hate me, did wrong, evil, monster_

 _That is so not what I meant_ , Peter thought. He swung towards the Queensboro Bridge, not bothering to disappear into the shadows. In spite of his reprimanding of the suit, he still couldn't help his need to be seen—to be gawked at and pointed to and appreciated the way he'd been before The Avengers had come along.

Yet even as he flew over the heads of the pedestrians and the roofs of the cars, a sinister thought crept along the edges of his mind. Why did it matter to him so much that the good people of New York City stood and saluted him? He had genuinely never cared before. Was he really that insecure? Did he really hate that much?

 _Of course you do_. His thoughts took a savage turn as he landed on the steeple of _St. Alban's Church_. _Of course you hate. That's all you've ever done. Hated your parents for leaving you; hated Uncle Ben for never telling you the truth; Harry for taking Gwen from you…you even despise Eddie his own weakness, his vulnerability. Why can't Eddie just pick himself back up and see that he's still alive, still breathing and working where so many others are lost? Like Gwen and Uncle Ben and MJ's mother?_

No. No he couldn't let himself hate like this. Couldn't let himself resent the people he loved for things that weren't their own fault. He needed to

 _fix, correct, change, be better, my fault, heal you, save you, change you_

He didn't want the suit to disperse just yet. Wasn't even sure that he knew how. But the thought of being separate from it triggered an alien feeling of anxiety. He would be different without it, back to his same old self—the self he'd lived with the for the last several months. And what if the suit didn't come back? What if he had to go back to being plain old Spider-Man? He'd had a taste of the power that came with his alien symbiote and he didn't want it to go away. Not yet. Not until he was spent from the feeling of sublime superiority that he got from it.

The street was dark; Queens wasn't Manhattan. Everyone here was either inside recovering from a hard day at work or on his or her way to a local watering hole. Spider-Man strode through the night, the familiarity of his new home street helping to alleviate the miasma of emotions he'd felt.

There was a light on in his house, and with that light came the knowledge that there was, contrary to his low opinion of himself, somebody who cared.

Somebody who'd seen the best and worst of him. She was

 _home, mine, ours_

so damn important to him. He leapt through the air and landed on the shadowy roof. Silently, he crawled through the attic window and into the dusty, cobwebbed strewn space in the ceiling. The spare storage area was only just big enough to hold the dozen or so boxes that had been stowed within. From below, he could hear MJ moving through the house—feel the beat of her heart and the thrum of her pulse.

She was safe; she was perfect and she was his—his refuge in the disorder of his life.

As his feet touched down on the floor of the hallway with a barely audible thud, he felt the suit peel away from his body. He didn't need it right now, didn't need it here with the woman who loved him no matter what he did or thought. The symbiote slithered from his body; Peter's bare skin breathed in the open air. His pulse raced, as heat coursed through his veins.

MJ was dancing around the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and humming one of the songs from _Les Miserables_. Everything about her screamed sensual confidence: from the too big button-up she wore over her boy-shorts to her hair—her beautiful, sunset hair—tied in a loose ponytail at the back of her head.

She was so perfect.

So right.

So his.

And she didn't see or feel him coming until he was behind her, snaking his arms around her middle and pulling her close.

"Whoa!" MJ's muscles tensed in surprise. Then, at the feeling of Peter's skin against her body, she relaxed and giggled. "Whoa indeed. What's with the birthday suit, Tiger? You miss me that bad today?"

"You have no idea."

He spun her around, filled with a masculine swagger as he saw the unbridled desire in her eyes. In answer to her question, he kissed her with all the fire that he had in him. MJ gasped; her lips parted. In seconds flat, her legs were around his waist and he was carrying her to the bedroom.

They'd done this so many times before—it was exemplary of that perfectly combustible love that Peter felt every time he so much as thought about her—how much she'd saved him; how right she was for him. But somehow tonight was different. He felt filled with a need for MJ that he'd never known before—a desire to be Alpha, to show her what she meant to him through each touch and every kiss.

Finally spent, they both collapsed to the sheets below them. MJ sighed, curling into his arms. She was asleep in moments, breathing contentedly. Peter held her, stroking his fingers up and down her skin, feeling bone weary but oh-so satisfied.

How long he lay awake, he did not know. A dog barked on the street outside; Peter heard the endless cacophony of airplanes leaving and landing from JFK Airport. His long-lasting high finally coming to a plateau, he settled to sleep, listening to the whispering breeze float through the window.

When he woke up the next morning, it was to find that the bed was empty; MJ was already showering, the beautiful sound of her voice as she sang possibly the best alarm clock Peter had ever heard. He wanted nothing more than to bask in the aftermath of the previous night—even that uncharacteristic curb stomping in the alley.

But he had things to do; it was another workday, and he was certain that, after what had happened at the Baxter Building, he'd have a lot to answer to. Specifically from Eddie and Doctor Banner. Kicking the sheets off, Peter climbed out of bed and got ready to face the day in a much better mood than he had been in since Easter.

He dressed for the day—with the window open, letting in the warm spring breeze, he could tell that it was going to be a bit of a scorcher. _Hot nights leading into hotter days_ , Peter thought with a puerile grin.

He'd just pulled a loose button-up over his t-shirt when he remembered, with a slight shock that he'd once again forgotten to put his costume on underneath his day clothes. He hadn't particularly seen the need for it in recent months, given the state of the city post-Avengers.

And as this thought occurred to him, the events of the previous night returned to him with perfect clarity. He heard the whisper traveling along the floor. Frowning, Peter looked down. The symbiote goo was slithering towards him like an excited puppy. Before Peter could so much as react, it attached itself to the skin of his ankle and crawled its way up. He felt the

 _memory, skin, sweat, contact, heat, tight,_

icy heat sensation as it adhered to his body, keeping itself just beyond the spots where it would be

 _her, woman, female, ours, more, more more,_

hidden and

 _see her, feel her, kiss her, touch her, touch me, touch us_

"Hey!" Peter slapped at his own chest, incensed that at what it was that the thing was singing in his blood. Yet even as he did so, he felt a sickening dread in his gut. The symbiote wasn't being perverse on purpose—it was simply looking at his memories, at his experiences—his feelings. It was the most disgusting sensation—voyeuristic, as if a separate entity were clinging to the ceiling of his thoughts and watching all that had happened with Mary Jane, not just the night before, but since they'd first met. Their walk in Central Park on a snowy winter's night; him buying an old Shakespeare book for her; their first time together after she'd told him about knowing who was under Spider-Man's mask. He saw her falling after Doctor Octopus had thrown her into darkness; saw her standing with him on the rooftop of the hospital on Christmas Day…

"Knock it off," Peter said, through gritted teeth. "You _do not_ look at those things."

"Talk to yourself much, Tiger?" MJ was leaning against the door to the adjoining bathroom, already dressed in a pair of sexy jeans and a comfortable long sleeve. She smirked at Peter's discomfiture, and crossed the room. "You possessed by a demon, or something? I thought we had a conversation about this the other day."

"Uh, yeah…" The word possessed made Peter's skin beneath the symbiote crawl.

 _are we bad, do you hate us, we want to help_

Mary Jane wrapped her arms around his neck. As pleased as he was to be so close to her—as much as taking the smell of her freshly washed skin and strawberry shampoo into his nostrils was nothing short of hypnotic—Peter still felt slightly ill at what he'd felt the symbiote thinking.

"coin for your thoughts?" MJ smiled at him.

 _so beautiful, so ours—_ yours _, she is yours, not ours,_

Peter relaxed. He kissed Mary Jane softly. "Just a little bummed that I have to head for the trenches today. I mean, I know you've got the show again tonight but—

"I know." MJ sighed, and Peter realized then that perhaps the woman he loved might not have been getting everything she wanted just because she'd gotten something that she'd wanted. Rehearsals were hard; and she likely wanted to be with him as much as he wanted to be with her.

"Not until later tonight, though," MJ added, brightening somewhat. "What say I stop by the office at lunch and we can go out for a bite. Maybe heckle Rio a little bit at my old haunt?"

"Sounds perfect." Peter bit his lip.

He had to tell her about the new suit; had to let her know about what had happened at the Baxter Building the previous night. Word would spread, especially in this day and age of frenetic social media. She'd either hear about it from somebody or see it on Twitter.

"Uh, MJ, there's something I have to tell you." Her head was on his chest; his fingers laced through her hair. He could feel the suit practically vibrating—it had never known something like this, Peter realized. And it was reacting to the touch and smell of the person that its host loved.

MJ turned her sea-storm eyes to Peter. "What's on your mind, big boy?"

"Last night—

Peter's words were cut off by the sounds of Marilyn Monroe's "Heatwave" issuing from Mary Jane's iPhone.

MJ grimaced. "Ignore that, she said. "It's just Angelica. She's probably running a mild fever and having an anxiety attack."

"Is she alright? She was sweating like a pig at the opening. Uh, not that Angelica looks like a pig or anything. Not that she's prettier than you!" Peter felt his face go red. "You're beautiful and sexy and I'm going to shut up now."

"No, please." MJ was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Tell me more about how sexy you find me." She poked him in the ribs playfully. "Or you could tell me what it is that's got your goat."

 _Right_ , Peter thought. _Important stuff_.

"Last night when I went to the—

The techno opening of "Ghost" by Mystery Skulls now cut Peter's words off.

"God damn it," MJ fumed. She left the safety of Peter's arms

 _gone, come back, need you, want you_

"I am so going to kill Kitty. And Angel. They know I'm not usually a morning person." She turned the phone to vibrate and slammed it onto the bedside table. "There. Now, what's on your mind?"

Peter waited a full ten seconds, in which the sibilant whispering of the symbiote through on his skin became almost too loud to bear. "It's about last night. Something, uh, happened when I was at the Baxter Building."

Concern lined MJ's face. "What is it? Did you get hurt? Is it Eddie? Is he okay?"

"No. Not really. It's just, uh—

Three, sharp, strident buzzes sounded from Mary Jane's phone. MJ's eyes narrowed; her lips thinned into an angry line. "Just what, Tiger?"

"Well—

MJ's phone fell to the floor with a loud clatter. It had vibrated itself off the edge of the nightstand.

Peter sighed. This was impossible. Mary Jane was just too busy. Too in-demand at the moment. What with the friends she had and the obligations to Broadway, it had been a miracle that they'd even got time to themselves last night.

 _hate you, love me, love us, that's bad, we're bad, hate me, hate me,_

"Stop it."

MJ paused, half-stooped as she collected her phone from the ground. "What?"

Peter rubbed a hand over his eyes. His day hadn't even properly begun and he was already exhausted. Perhaps his new suit wasn't a good fit for him after all? Come to think of it, Reed Richards and his science team should have been the first ones who had seen the life form.

"Shit." Mary Jane frowned at her iPhone. "They're doing a media scrum." She bit her lip, looking so torn that Peter couldn't help but feel a stab of guilt. How could he even dream of calling himself a supportive partner if he kept foisting his problems on

 _no, not bad, not you, hero, savior, lover, friend, we're bad, we're evil, we're wrong, we're poison_

Peter closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through his nose. _There's nothing wrong with you_ , he thought. _You're just a little confused is all._ He couldn't quite tell if he was referring to himself or the symbiote.

"Sorry, Tiger. You were saying something about the Baxter Building?"

He couldn't drag her into this. It was his issue—he'd deal with it. Later that night, after work, he'd get in touch with Reed Richards, or even one of the Storm siblings, and see if they could figure out what was up with his the symbiote. They could detach it and

 _no, no, no, never separate, always with you, need to be with you, we can show you, we can help you_

then once he knew more about it, he could figure out how to proceed from there.

Hopefully in way that allowed him to keep his new supped up suit.

"Yeah. It's nothing though. I might be late getting in. Going to take a looksee down there in case they need some more damage control."

" 'Course you will." MJ kissed him on the cheek. "You're the big hero, after all."

Both Peter and the symbiote rippled in satisfaction. And as he left the house for the bright warmth of the morning, he felt his rush of elation return. He was the hero, even if he was currently a little too skin-to-skin with an alien lifeform.

 _happy, please you, help you, hero_

 _Sure,_ Peter thought. _But you keep your mitts to yourself when it comes to my personal life, you get me?_

 _always, help you, with you, need you, need us, never leave_

He'd only gone a few paces down the sidewalk when he heard the clatter of a screen door bang open from behind him.

"Yo, Pete! Put the brakes on, man! I'll walk with you!"

Miles Morales was hurrying down the sidewalk, a half eaten Pop Tart in one hand. Peter felt a pull of warmth in his gut—two positive influences in the space of a few hours was the best kind of medicine.

"You're going to be late, my man," Peter said as the kid fell into step beside him. Judging from the haphazard way Miles's shirt was half-tucked into his pants, and the slight sheen of anxious sweat on his smooth, brown skin, Miles likely knew this himself.

"Like that's the worst thing I've ever been up to," Miles said. "I couldn't help myself, dude. The Internet is blowing up hardcore. Think Kim K with a bottle of champagne on her booty, but so much more important." Miles fished his phone out of his jeans; Peter felt his heart sink. A moment later, his slight suspicion was proven accurate as his young friend showed him a YouTube video of the fight in the alley the previous night.

"Uh, wow," Peter breathed. He threw it his hand as his spider-sense sounded in alarm, preventing Miles from walking into a barrier surrounding an open manhole.

"That suit is the shit, man!"

"Watch your mouth."

Miles rolled his eyes, and gave Peter a playful potshot to the shoulder. "Whatever. Did you see that? He's even more awesome now. Black suit is totally more badass than those pajamas he used to wear. I'm so going to update my cosplay. Maybe make it a little bit of the red and black."

Peter felt himself grinning like a complete idiot. He couldn't have gone _that_ overboard with the gangbangers the previous night, not if someone as well-adjusted as Miles Morales was so taken with Spider-Man's new suit.

hero, did good, praise us, love us, we're good, are we

 _Yes_ , Peter thought. _We are good_.

"Mom's having a bit of a barbecue on the weekend." Miles was still carrying on in that endearing way of his. "Guess she doesn't want me to be too disappointed that I can't get tickets to see the big Dazzler concert, but it's all good. We're having pulled pork, potato salad—the works. You and MJ are invited. And Mom's already asked Aunt May. Oh, and Eddie can come too, long as he doesn't get too liquored up."

Peter grinned, stopping across the street from the stop where Miles had to catch the bus. "We'll be there," he said.

"Catch you later! And hey, if you're on the Net later, share the hell out of the new suit! It's epic!"

 _Yeah_ , Peter thought. _Epic_.

The symbiote was humming, pleased with the praise that he and Peter had gotten. It felt good to feel good about himself for a change, even if it was as a result of his new alien form.

Peter turned from the crosswalk. He didn't have to worry about running out of webs now, so there was no need to slug it to work like the common people. He took off at a jog down the street, diving into the shadows behind a strip mall. Almost as soon as he thought of it, the symbiote bled through his clothes. Peter felt the barely-there cooling sensation of it cover his face.

 _higher, faster, stronger, smarter, love this, love you, this life, this body_

Peter let out a whoop of delight as he took off at a leap and swung through the streets of Queens. People gasped, and several cars honked their horns at him as he zoomed over their heads. He forgot about his earlier disturbed feelings towards the symbiote—it was only trying to help, after all. He'd just have to be careful with it.

Maybe he'd hang onto the suit just a little bit longer.

It wasn't as though Reed Richards and his friends had known what was in that big lump of space rock, anyway.


	6. Consequence

The high took Peter all the way from Queens to the roof of Horizon Labs. Thanks to his lightning-speed swing through Manhattan, he found himself a good fifteen minutes early for work. The view from on top of one of the tallest buildings in the skyline was breathtaking; sunlight glinted off the calm waters of the Hudson River and the Atlantic. New York City spread before him like a shining treasure hoard, and it was

 _all mine, all ours, we save them_

more beautiful to him than it had ever been. Even the sight of the Avengers Tower, almost mockingly facing Horizon, didn't put the usual damper on his mood. Taking in a great gulp of air, Peter crawled down the side of the building to the roof landing. There, the suit disappeared beneath his day clothes, and he walked through the roof access door with an unusual spring in his step.

"Hey!" A paunchy, middle-aged security guard barked as he saw Peter walking briskly from the roof access stairs. "Do you have clearance for this area?"

 _stupid, annoying, killing my high, leave me alone_

"Do _you_ have clearance for _your_ job?" Peter shot back with a smirk. The man blinked, his face flushing with anger. "C'mon, dude. I was just taking in the sights."

"Sure." The guard

 _shamed, guilty, deserves it_

still looked somewhat flustered by Peter's backtalk. Peter wondered what in the world someone as feeble looking as the man was even doing working security.

His elation

 _because of me, because of us, because I made us happy,_

made him feel as if he could float off the ground. He felt protected from all the morose thoughts and feelings that had been threatening to consume him for months.

He made it to the elevator just shy of breaking out into a jaunty whistle. As the doors slid shut, his spider-senses warned him of someone approaching. He wedged his foot between the door, and promptly found himself face to face with a wide-eyed Betty Banner.

"Peter!" It looked as if she were about to hug him as she stepped into the elevator car. "Oh thank God! I was about to get Bruce to come looking for you." Betty frowned and added as an afterthought, "Granted that would have resulted in some serious property damage lawsuits, but it's nothing Tony couldn't finagle his way out of."

"What are you talking about, Doctor Banner?"

"What am I-Peter, it's been all over the news! There was an attack at the Baxter Building last night! They roughed up just about everyone from Reed Richards' team! Even Thor wasn't strong enough to come out unscathed. I was worried that something had happened to you."

"I'm touched," Peter said, grinning roguishly at his boss. "And also here, and in one piece."

"Thank God for that. I'd hate to have to break in a whole new tech department lead."

"Speaking of tech," Peter said, "the show last night was pretty damn impressive. Reed Richards actually brought something back from another dimension."

Betty nodded distractedly. "Yes, and he's lucky that those thugs didn't get a hold of it."

Remembering how long the young scientist had been out cold for, Peter felt a pang of guilt at having glossed over the attack so easily. After all, he and Eddie could have easily been in the same position if it hadn't been for

 _you, me, us, together_

some quick thinking, fancy gadgets and dumb luck.

"How is Doctor Richards doing, anyway? And the others? Ben Grimm and the Storm's?"

"Glad to hear you met them," Doctor Banner said. "They're all doing just fine. Richards owns the top four floors of the Baxter Building; that's where his private labs are. They're all staying there and recovering, from what I was told."

Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

The doors slid open at Doctor Banner's stop. "Were you able to get a good look at what Richards brought back?"

The symbiote trembled beneath Peter's clothes.

"Uh, no," Peter said, staring straight ahead. "The attack happened kinda fast..." He didn't know why he was withholding. After all, it wasn't as though Doctor Banner needed to know that her young colleague was wearing the very thing that Reed Richards and his team had extracted from wherever there little robot had gone. But Peter felt as if it were a fun secret-something for him alone to understand.

 _And MJ_ , he thought. _She has to know about this. If she ever has the time to listen_.

Looking none the worse for not having heard about the fantastic find, Doctor Banner beamed at Peter as she departed the elevator. "Well, I'm glad that you're safe at any rate."

"I always land on my feet," Peter replied.

 _because of us, because we are strong together, we are unity, we need us, need each other_

Despite the odd bristle in his mind, Peter was able to completely throw himself into his tasks for that morning. The symbiote seemed fascinated by everything that Peter did-at all the knowledge it was being fed as it observed. Something about the thing's curiosity reminded Peter of a little kid. He felt proud as he and his team continued with their research and development-almost like he was a parent teaching his child how to tie their shoelaces.

The jubilation was infectious. Peter's team had never seen him in such a good mood. By the time lunch hour rolled around, not only was Peter feeling as if he could punch a hole through an adamantium mountain, but the rest of his team also seemed to be walking a little taller.

 _we helped, we did it, team, friends, joint, us,_

"Stop being so cheerful, Captain Nerd. You're making my teeth rot; and this place might cover dental, but I really don't want to sit through a root canal." Darcy Lewis's shrewd voice snapped Peter out of his dreamy high as he walked towards the cafeteria.

"There's always the option of anesthesia," Peter shot back as Darcy fell into step beside him. "You strike me as the type who'd go viral once you came around and started babbling about Nicki Minaj."

"Tempting, but I really don't want to take away from your career as king of Internet videos, if you get my drift." Darcy stuck her tongue out. "I'm talking about porn, by the way. Because you're obviously in the business. Y'know...given your lack of scruples."

"Porn, huh? I do have a bigger than average...cerebral cortex."

Darcy let out a yelp of laughter. "Jesus, Parker. What's your Xanax dosage, dude? I haven't heard you this peppy and sharp since...well, ever."

"Can I help it if I'm in a good mood?"

 _we're making you happy, we're needed, need us, love us_

"Good mood nothing." Darcy squinted at Peter as they got into the lunch line. She was silent for a moment, and then let out a gasp loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in a twelve-foot radius. In a voice even louder, that drew the attention of everyone in the entire cafeteria, she said, "You big stud! You got laid last night, didn't you!?"

Several people-people that Peter worked with, had earned the respect of, and admired in turn-stopped and stared. And yet, despite the blistering heat flushing him from neck to scalp, Peter couldn't help but feel a mild bravado at the memory of

 _sweat, skin, lips, hair, touch, sound, passion, so good, more, need more_

what had happened the previous night between himself and Mary Jane.

Had he not known Darcy Lewis as well as he did, Peter would have pegged the sound that she made next as squee.

"You did!"

"Whatever," Peter muttered with a grin that he couldn't help. "Embarrass me much."

"I can't help it. I _love_ love." He and Darcy left the lunch line, a mercy given that the servers were all smirking at Peter.

Just as Peter made to turn the corner to their usual table, he felt his spider-sense go off. He made to dodge, but the familiar, mousy, bespectacled figure on the other side was too inept to get out of the way. She collided with Peter, upending his lunch tray and sending his veggies, iced tea and New England clam chowder slopping over the front of his clothes.

"Ohmigosh! Peter, I'm so sorry, I don't know what I was thinking about!" Carlie's nasally whine only served to wedge the knife of irritation further into Peter's brain. The high he'd been coasting along all morning was brought plummeting down.

Carlie was all of a fluster. Before Peter could completely process how he really felt about having to wear his lunch as an apron-something he hadn't had to endure since middle school-he felt Carlie pawing desperately at his midriff with a paper towel.

He

 _hate her, annoying, little speck, touching me, touching us, stupid, pathetic, weakling, disgusting  
_  
felt

 _violated, desecrated, foul, assaulted, get off me, not worth, inferior,_

himself

 _too good for her, doesn't she know, pathetic worm, who we are, what we do_

back away, staring at Carlie with a blazing irritation. Carlie's freckled face was as pink as a fish's guts. Over her shoulder, Darcy stood with an almost bored expression-everyone at Horizon had come to expect these kinds of histrionics from Crazy Carlie Cooper, after all.

"It was an accident! I was just thinking about Cle and I didn't see-I didn't mean to touch you just now, I was just trying to help. It's not so bad, that kind of thing happens to me all the time, Pete! This one time-"

What was she babbling about? Why couldn't she just shut the hell up for five minutes and realize that nobody

 _likes her, needs her, wants her, crazy, pathetic, disgusting, little thing,_

wanted to hear her speak on the best of days?

"-and then these guys actually threw the entire thing all over me just because I refused to given them exact change!"

Peter took a deep breath. Then he chuckled; he noticed Darcy's eyes go wide. Several of the on looking crowd froze, as if there was something unnerving and wrong about Peter having a good laugh.

"It's all good Carlie." Peter put a hand on Carlie's bony shoulder, looking into her watery blue eyes. "And that's a real shame about those guys."

Carlie blinked. "Really?"

 _stupid, foul, naive, little rat_

"Sure." Peter smiled. He felt a visceral rush at the notion of what he was about to say. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was going to take a leaping bound across a line, but he honestly couldn't find it in him to care anymore.

Carlie had knowingly married the monster who had hurt Eddie; who had ruined his life and, in doing so, damaged his and Peter's friendship. It wasn't Peter's fault that Carlie was so unbelievably stupid.

"But I'm a little stumped," Peter went on. "All these people being unkind to you. Why don't you get some big strong strapping knight in shining armor to teach them a lesson? Or is there something about being married to an incarcerated murdering pig bastard that the rest of polite society is missing?"

All the oxygen in the cafeteria seemed to disappear. For a moment, Peter saw something flicker in Carlie's eyes-something dark and alien and filled with a fiery rage. Whatever it was was drowned by the instantaneous welling of tears. She let out a pathetic sob and raced out of the cafeteria.

Peter met Darcy's eyes, and knew at once that he'd given in to something completely other. Something destructive and vicious.

Scowling, Darcy plucked several scratchy napkins from a nearby dispenser and threw them at Peter. "You might wanna muck yourself off before you have lunch." Something in her tone, and the expression on her face, told Peter that he would be very lucky indeed if Darcy so much as sneezed in his direction any time soon.

He felt the stunned, disgusted gazes of his colleagues as he left the cafeteria. What was their problem? Carlie Cooper was the office shill-nobody liked her, as far as Peter knew. At least he'd had the balls to come out and say how he felt.

 _But just because you feel something_ , said a clear voice in his head-one that he hadn't heard since Christmas- _doesn't give you the right to behave like an asshole, bug boy._

By the time Peter made it to the deserted bathroom he was breathing heavily, a choking guilt making him feel almost dizzy. The symbiote was nattering in his head, a contrary cavalcade of self-loathing and self-aggrandizing phrases. No matter what it said, Carlie hadn't deserved such a public third degree.

Peter splashed some cold water over his face, and then yelped when, upon looking into the mirror, he saw the creeping, black tendrils of the suit slithering up his face.

 _don't be mad, we did wrong, sorry, not sorry, her fault, our fault, let us, heal you, help you, punish you, punish us_

"STOP IT!" Peter yelled. His voice echoed around the acoustic space of the bathroom. He felt the symbiote bristle, as if he'd injured it somehow. It receded, leaving his brain mercifully empty of its ceaseless chatter, if only for the time being.

Before he could even begin to pontificate upon just what in God's green Earth had gotten into him, his cell phone rang. He took solace in the jubilant sounds of Betty Who's "I Love You Always Forever." MJ was just the person he needed to hear from right now.

"Thank God it's you, baby." He hated how exhausted his own voice sounded to him.

"You okay, Tiger? You sound bushed." Because of course she could hear it. Mary Jane was so attuned to him, so attentive to however he was feeling or whatever he was trying to hide. The exception being his new suit, but he would tell her tonight. He would.

He had to.

"Yeah," he lied. "Just uh, had a bit of meltdown earlier."

"Does this have anything to do with a certain alley and a certain someone who was formerly dressed in red and blue spandex?"

Peter froze, staring at his own wide-eyed reflection. He remembered what Miles had shown him that morning on their way to his school.

His episode in the alley the previous night was likely the front page of Buzzfeed Superheroes.

"MJ, I'm...I'm so sorry."

"Why didn't you say anything?" She sounded genuinely hurt, and Peter hated that so much. Firstly, because he was always devastated when he upset the woman he loved. And secondly because-

"I tried to tell you this morning. Remember?"

"Yeah, but you didn't exactly spit it out."

"It was kinda hard when your social network was re-enacting The Blitz with your iPhone."

"I'm sorry for having other things to do," MJ snapped, the anger in her voice catching Peter completely off guard.

He felt the blood drain from his face. Deep in the ugly pit of his ego he felt a venomous anger at the unfairness of what MJ had said. He'd wanted to tell her but if she-

 _careless, hates you, hates me, hates us, hate her, doesn't care, never will, not even if her own mother died_

Bile rose in Peter's throat. He was so scared that he'd actually spoken those heinous words aloud that he swayed where he stood. A noise like a whimper escaped his lips.

"Oh Jesus," MJ breathed from the other end of the line. "Oh Jesus Christ on toast, Tiger, I'm sorry. This show is way chaotic and I'm just..." Whatever she was

 _special, wrong, important, horrible, oh help, what is she, she is ours_

spiraled into silence. Peter felt trapped under some enormous, roving searchlight. He didn't want to start a fight with her, not when his own head space was so damn volatile.

"What's going on?" MJ sounded as worn out as Peter felt. Worse than that, she sounded worried. For him.

But he couldn't open his mouth, too afraid of what could come out if he wasn't careful.

He remembered the look on Carlie Cooper's face when he'd said those awful words.

He pictured it so vividly on MJ's own beautiful face that it almost hurt.

No.

He couldn't risk it. Not until he got a handle on what the hell was happening.

Holding his own reflection's gaze as an anchor point, Peter said, "It's nothing I can't handle, baby."

"Peter!" MJ said sharply. "Don't make me blackmail you! I have anecdotal, and possibly photographic, evidence of what you and Eddie used to do when you were roommates and I will not hesitate to spread it all over Broadway!"

Peter grinned tiredly. "Really, MJ, it's nothing. Just changed my threads is all. Thought it might take people by surprise if I stepped out in something a little off-season."

Mary Jane sounded like she was about to say something, but Peter was already having trouble focusing on her voice. "MJ, I gotta get back to work. I'll see you tonight, okay? Love you."

He'd already dragged her into how messed up his world could be at times. He couldn't risk having her pulled into whatever mess he'd _gotten_ himself into. With the suit now thrumming against his skin, Peter left the bathroom, feeling oddly

 _confused, trying, so hard, please don't, hate me, leave me, leave us, begging, starving_

cold. He needed to think, needed to apologize to Carlie Cooper.

Before he'd so much as gone a dozen steps, Betty Banner called his name.

"Peter! A moment, please!"

This was it. He was going to get fired, end up having to crawl back to J. Jonah Jameson on his hands and knees. He approached Doctor Banner at the end of the corridor. But contrary to his fears, his superior looked less angry and more worried.

Before Doctor Banner could give him a much deserved grilling, Peter said, "I'm really, _really_ sorry for what happened at lunch. I know I'm a complete assbutt and I don't-

"Assbutt?" Doctor Banner frowned.

"Uh, yeah. It's from _Supernatural_."

"Is it your favorite show?"

Peter blinked. "One of them."

"Then maybe spend some time today catching up on reruns. I never should have let you come in today, Peter. You're traumatized. I'm surprised you gave as much output as you did. Go home. Take the weekend. I'll handle the fallout with Carlie. But you _are_ going to apologize when you get in on Monday." Doctor Banner smiled and Peter felt devastated that she was offering him such kindness when he'd been so cruel earlier. "Maybe take your new little Broadway darling to go see the Dazzler concert. Alison Blaire's still got it after all these years."

Numbly, Peter nodded. He walked through the halls and floors of Horizon Labs feeling slightly dazed. People pointed and him, some scowling and others giving him appreciative nods. Evidently some of the techs and scientists were of the mind that Carlie Cooper's being grilled for her annoyingness had been a long time coming.

But Peter couldn't agree with them. Not when he'd been so needlessly

 _just, brave, she deserved it, we did wrong, you did wrong, our fault_

cruel.

The warmth of the morning had given way to sudden cloud cover. Peter could smell rain off the Hudson; feel the breeze stiffen as it skimmed over the Atlantic and through the crowded streets of New York City.

He could swing back to Queens, but after all that had happened that morning, he didn't feel at all keen on using the symbiote's powers.

 _need me, need me, need me,_

 _Not right now_ , Peter thought.

 _saved you, helped you, cleaned you_

Peter glanced at his shirt as he hurried into the shelter of the Wall Street subway terminal. The remains of his lunch had completely vanished, leaving him in the same clean shirt he'd thrown on that morning.

The symbiote had changed his clothes.

His entire trip homewards via the subway was spent in a state of unease that only grow the further along the tunnel system he went. He really had no idea what had gotten into him. Onto him, yes, but was it too farfetched to assume that the alien suit was actually

 _helping, healing, need me, please, please you_

influencing his thoughts and feelings?

But that couldn't be true because he had felt this way before it had come along-had been consistently irritated by Carlie Cooper, resented The Avengers for taking so much meaning out of his duty as Spider-Man. He'd felt like the least important person in his own life for months. So it wasn't the symbiote.

That had to mean that...

 _It's me_ , Peter thought as he departed at the Times Square Station and transferred to the Queens Street line. He felt as if he were being smothered slowly by an immense black cloud. It was terrible, stifling, and yet somehow comforting. It confirmed everything he'd feared about himself: that he was no good; that he was hiding from something.

That nobody really needed him. Not even

 _i need you, you need me, we need us_

Mary Jane or Eddie needed him when it really came down to it.

 _Not that you do them any good_ , he thought savagely as he jogged up the stairs and out of the subway in Queens, his hands jammed into his pockets. _You can't even let MJ have a career without throwing a pity party. And you make your best friend feel inferior for something that you let happen._

 _no, no, no, no_

Peter ignored the symbiote. Keeping his head low, he walked along the familiar sidewalks of neighborhood. Part of him didn't want to go home; part of him wanted to get lost out here and

 _let me fix you, let me heal you, let me show you_

But what if he didn't want to be fixed? Would it be so terrible to surrender to the notion that he wasn't worth all that he used to be?

He turned the corner to his street and was a few hundred yards from his and MJ's house, when he noticed a familiar car parked along the curb.

Strange: what was Aunt May doing here on a workday? Peter hurried down the pavement and had just set foot on the path when the door opened. Aunt May had a longcoat over her scrubs; obviously she'd been called away while on the clock. And walking next to her, looking as if he'd had the roughest of nights, was Eddie.

"Hey, what's going-" He saw the sleek, silver-crowned cane supporting Eddie's weight, and instantly felt as if he'd been shot in the gut.

He'd forgotten to return the cane the night before.

The one thing that he'd gone back into that hanger to retrieve, and he'd cast it aside the second he'd gotten home. The symbiote must have absorbed it on the swing back from the Baxter Building, and then spat it out during Peter's descent from the attic.

Eddie's tired, bloodshot eyes met Peter's for the briefest of moments. Anger, relief and hurt flashed across his handsome face. Then he hurried down the path, his head down.

"Eddie, listen, it was-"

Eddie slammed the door of Aunt May's Volkswagen, cutting Peter off. Before Peter could so much as make a move towards his best friend, Aunt May said, "I'm glad we ran into you, Peter. I'd like a word, if you're not too terribly busy."

How was it that he could be a grown man, with superpowers to boot, and still feel like a child in her presence? Not even the symbiote seemed to be cowed by the look on Aunt May's face, for which Peter was immensely thankful. Feeling like he was six years old again, he walked inside.

The second the door closed, he turned to his aunt, desperate to explain himself. Aunt May held up a hand.

"Eddie told me a very interesting story on the way back from his apartment." She was speaking evenly; Peter wasn't even certain that Aunt May was actually angry. "He said that the two of you were among those attacked at the Baxter Building last night, and that you went back to get his cane. Is that true?"

"Yes."

Aunt May nodded. "I thought so. I'd ask for an explanation, but the Internet seems to have filled in the rest." Wonderful. Even she'd seen the footage of Spider-Man beating up those gangbangers.

"What you may not know," Aunt May went on, "is that Eddie had to surrender that makeshift crutch you gave him because the security at your old apartment thought it was a weapon. He waited for you all night and all of this morning, Peter. And when it looked like you were a no-show-which worried him sick, by the way-he called me. Now, I want to know exactly what is going on here. And judging from the phone call I got from Mary Jane while Eddie was looking for his cane, so would the other people in your life."

He couldn't tell her, not after what he'd said to Carlie.

But May Parker had many talents, and chiefest among them was a remarkably low tolerance for bullshit. There wasn't a fireball's chance in Siberia that he was going to get away with avoiding the issue.

At least not entirely.

Aunt May stared Peter down, which was odd, given that he was several inches taller than she was. "Do you remember what I told you the last time you were in the grips of a personal crisis?"

"Yes." How could he forget? He'd been dangerously close to throwing it all away. And Aunt May had seen through more than just his would-be disappearing act.

"You're only alone if you never open up to others," Aunt May said, repeating her words from Christmas. "Are you going to put yourself through this again, Peter Parker?"

Peter sighed. He felt thoroughly miserable, although this time it was actually because he deserved it.

But he was too afraid of what might cross his mind-what he might say or do. He himself needed to understand what was happening if he was to honest with the people he loved.

"I'll tell you everything. All of you," Peter added, "tomorrow. We're having that barbecue next-door, yeah? Aunt May, you have my word that I'll explain everything. It's just...I don't really know what's going on right now either." He hated admitting it to her. Hated that he didn't have this under control. He was supposed to be the superhero, and yet here he was-victim to himself and possibly some cracked out alien life form.

Aunt May's eyes narrowed. "Alright. But if you don't come clean before the potato salad tomorrow night, so help me God, Peter Benjamin Parker, I will send every last photo I have of you during that phase when you wanted to be a ballet dancer to the _Daily Bugle_."

"Right," Peter said, feeling oddly relieved that, once again, his aunt had seen through the wall he'd been building. "Tell him...tell Eddie that I'm sorry."

"I won't," Aunt May said brightly. " _You're_ going to beg for forgiveness tomorrow night along with everything else that you're going to do. I'm sure I can find some excuse to get Rio and Miles to give us a little privacy."

She left then, leaving Peter feeling even more like a massive heel. He watched from the window as Aunt May's Volkswagen pulled away from the curb. Eddie was still stone faced in the passenger's side; Peter couldn't imagine what his best friend was probably thinking right now.

Only that it involved how much of a pathetic, egotistical jerkass he, Peter, was.

 _I don't deserve them_ , Peter thought. But just as he felt the coils of that sinister fog begin to creep around his brain, he snapped back, a warm resolution filling him. He had to keep his promise to Aunt May; had to make up to Mary Jane and Eddie all the ways he'd let them down.

Going to the Baxter Building and getting Reed Richards to help figure out the symbiote was a good place to start. Peter left a note for MJ and hurried out the door. The cool wind that had blown in off the river earlier was now gusting down the street, sending newspapers and dust flying everywhere.

Shielding his eyes, Peter hurried back the way he'd come. He wasn't going to

 _use me, need me, please, me, help you, let us in, let us be_

make use of his suit unless he absolutely had too.

He was in sight of the boulevard that lead to the bridge when he felt his senses slam into high gear so fast that he almost fell over.

The next second he saw a beat up Oldsmobile come careening around the corner, tires squealing. Several other cars lurched out of the way, blaring their horns. A high-pitched scream sounded from down the block: "MY SON! OH GOD, HE HAS MY LITTLE BOY!"

Since falling in love with Mary Jane, Peter had learned that there were instances when he simply didn't need to be the hero. New York City was full of them, now more than ever. There were police cars all over Queens, and The Avengers could surely swoop in to save the day once more.

And yet something in him, something connected with the part that had been all for showboating the previous night and throughout that morning, demanded that he act and act fast. After all he was

 _yes, hero, give me, power, join me, need us, use us, love us_

the closest at hand and as the car sped down the boulevard, he could see the terrified face of a young boy with dark skin peering out the back window. Something about the kid reminded Peter of Miles Morales.

He couldn't let the kid down.

And after all, it was only just a brief jaunt to rescue him. He'd go to the Baxter Building right after.

The surging crowd and speeding cruisers converged on the scene. Nobody took notice of the workaday young man with the mousey brown hair as he disappeared behind a dense cluster of shrubbery. But they did notice, with jubilant cries of relief and gaping mouths as a black suited Spider-Man took to the air, in hot pursuit of the getaway car.


	7. Divison

Whoever was racing the Oldsmobile certainly knew how to put it through its paces.

But Spider-Man was not only

 _faster, superior, stronger,_

hot on their tires, he was also feeling the electric charge that he'd gotten every time the symbiote suit had taken over his body: he could do this, and do it easily. He chased the car clear down the boulevard to the Queensboro Bridge, swinging along buildings and beams with his eyes narrowed in determination.

He kept the terrified face of the kidnapped boy at the forefront of his mind; it drove him higher and faster, compelled his

 _rage, fury, hatred, crush them, stop them_

actions and movements. It was just another car chase, and as fast as the kidnapping scum drove, they didn't drive nearly fast enough

 _never escape, always catch you, stupid little fly_

to outstrip the web-slinger. Halfway across the Queensboro, Spider-Man landed with a heavy thud on the roof of the car. It was the chase with Mysterio all over again, only this time Spider-Man was

 _one with me, one with us, need me, love me,_

far less willing to pull his punches. The steel roof sagged under the impact of his drop; rubber squealed against pavement as the car jerked violently to one side. The driver was determined to keep on the road, something that the wall-crawling hero found admirable, and also incredibly annoying.

He didn't

 _care, get them, stop them, punish them_

give a damn about whatever fallout there might be. He pounded through the roof, his enhanced strength allowing him to pull the steel aside as if it were a bundle of balsa wood. He could hear the kidnapped boy screaming; the driver was doing his best to keep the car on course, but it was futile.

Spider-Man's determination—his fury and rage and own disgust with himself and everything else that had gone wrong that day—pumped through his veins like

 _poison, acid, venom, we are, you are, venom, venom, venom_

a flood. He was going to show this monster just what happened to people in _his_ city who dared attempt to take the life of an innocent child.

He fired a line of black webbing to the girder of the bridge nearly fifty feet away. Using all his strength, he steered the Oldsmobile sideways, using the trajectory to slam it into one of the cars parked along the side of the street. The windshield shattered at the impact; the sickening crunch of the car's metal frame grated at Spider-Man's ears.

He tore the remainder of the roof away like the top of a sardine can. The snatched boy was flattened against the back seat, eyes wide and streaming with tears. Spider-Man smiled at him, and the kid screamed, cowering with his arms over his head.

Obviously the poor kid was traumatized by being kidnapped. Spider-Man turned his attention to the driver's seat; the kidnapper was stirring, having been slammed into the steering wheel.

 _scum, pathetic, consume him, devour him, crush him_

Spider-Man tore the man from his seat, ripping through the shoulder strap. His face was bloody; his glasses had been broken at the bridge of the nose. He blinked, kicking and struggling as Spider-Man closed his fingers around his throat.

"Pathetic." Spider-Man heard his own voice, simpatico with the vibrating words of his symbiotic skin. "You come in like the boogeyman and steal a boy from his mother's arms? Well _we're_ worse than the boogeyman. _We're_ what gives the monsters nightmares."

The man's eyes bugged from his head. Spider-Man felt filthy even touching the monster. He had to get the man away from his skin, away from the little boy.

Away.

Far.

Somewhere colder and deep and dark.

 _river, water, drown him, forget him, punish him, poison him,_

Yes.

Far away.

Spider-Man carried the gurgling man by the throat, and dangled him over the side of the bridge. The man was crying openly like the

 _weak, miserable, wretched, we're the hero, he is evil, snuff him out_

coward he was. Spider-Man felt his skin prickle; hundreds of eyes were on him. A crowd had gathered on the street behind,

 _watching you, watching me, watching us, worshiping, adoring_

as their hero delivered permanent justice.

The man started screaming, high pitched and shrill and desperate. Spider-Man narrowed his eyes, hissing in fury. How dare the sick, child-snatching son of a bitch show any fear?

He was going to drop the bastard, sending him to the water below.

Something collided with the web-slinger's side. The next second he felt someone yanking desperately at his arm. It was only then that he realized that the kidnapper wasn't the one screaming—it was his would-be victim.

"Please!" The kid begged. "P-please don't hurt my Dad, Spider-Man!"

It was as if a great tidal wave of frigid water washed over the hero. All of the rage and hateful disgust washed away, leaving him frozen with horror. He dropped the man on the sidewalk; the little boy ran to his father's arms. The man was gasping, and Spider-Man was able to discern snatches of words: "I'm sorry...she was...she was taking him away from me...I just wanted to…just wanted to have my son…just for a little bit…"

The gazes of the crowd around him felt like hundreds of piercing daggers. Spider-Man turned from the embracing father and son, feeling his stomach churning.

How could he have ever thought that they adored him? Unlike the fight in the alley, there wasn't a mix of horror and appreciation—a unanimous shock stared at the hero from the eyes of the crowd.

 _love you, love us, didn't mean, did mean, what to do, help me, no help you, help us_

Through the haze of dizziness and horror, Spider-Man saw two faces in particular watching him. The disgust was an ice-cold knife digging into his rib cage; Aunt May and Eddie were standing among the stunned and sickened masses. The horror on Aunt May's face nearly brought Spider-Man to his knees.

But it was Eddie's expression—the almost understanding pity—that sprung the hero

 _love me, hate me, keep me, save me, destroy me, evil, good, bad, forgive me_

into action. He had to get rid of the symbiote. As he leapt and swung away from the Queensboro Bridge, he saw all that had happened as if on a film reel: everything he'd done and said and thought since he'd bonded with his new suit.

It wasn't him.

It could never be him wanting to do those things.

He remembered the previous Christmas; saw his frantic search through a demolished subway. He'd nearly crossed the line then, squeezing the life from a jump-suited escapee of Ravencroft Prison.

He'd been pulled back by the words of a police officer, words that floated through the

 _chaos, rampage, destruction_

tumult of his

 _ours, yours, mine, is_

aching and tired mind.

"You do _not_ kill people. You _never_ kill people."

No. He didn't. Not unless he absolutely had to, and certainly not when it involved someone whose only crime was running scared.

The rain that had been threatening since that afternoon still hadn't fallen by the time Spider-Man flattened himself against the side of the Baxter Building. Yet the grey clouds were now towering over the Atlantic, the storm terrible in its mounting threat.

He had to get the thing off of him, out of him. The power wasn't

 _no, need me, love me, save you, stop it, stop this,_

worth what the thing seemed to be doing to his mind.

There was a window slightly open on the fifth floor. Spider-Man could

 _don't, stop, begging, please, never again, promise_

hear soft music wafting out of it. The air was warmer the closer he got to the screen. There was someone

 _only me, only need me, only want_

in there. Someone who could, at the very least, point him in the direction of Reed Richards and his team.

He yanked the screen outwards, webbing it to the side of the building to prevent anyone on the street below getting

 _bloody, hurting, pain, please, help us_

injured by it. The symbiote was squirming all along his skin, sucking the strength from him as it fought to prevent its impending separation.

Spider-Man all but collapsed through the window, landing on a polished hardwood floor on his hands and knees. And as he registered the sounds of a shower shutting off from the adjoining bathroom of the large and expensive looking suite, he felt the symbiote recede. It was sinking back below the line of his clothes.

It was exposing him in an effort to hide itself.

Peter had just enough time to straighten himself up before the door from the bathroom opened. A gush of steam and a smell of skin and alpine body wash hit his nostrils. A moment later, he was completely gobsmacked by the sight of a recently showered Johnny Storm grooving and singing along to the music without a stitch of clothing covering his smooth, wet, brown skin.

"Gah!" Peter yelped. Johnny jumped, his eyes going wide. He scrambled for the first thing in reach to cover his modesty, freezing on the spot with a deer-in-the-headlights stare.

"What the hell?!"

Peter, having dived behind an expensive looking loveseat, squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to prevent himself from getting another peepshow. "I'm sorry! I need help!"

"Yeah, in more ways than one," Johnny shot back. Peter could hear him padding across the floor. "You better have a good story or you're going to be in for a world of hurt, dude."

"I need to see Reed Richards," Peter explained, crawling around the floor like a blind puppy. A moment later felt himself hoisted to his feet by the back of his shirt collar.

"Hey, you're that not-a-paparazzi guy from the basement lab yesterday."

"Y-yeah." Peter chanced a glance at Johnny, and then hastily stared at a large landscape over top of the sleek California king size bed. Johnny had grabbed an iPad to cover himself with, which really left little to the imagination.

"The one with the good taste in cigars. I didn't take you for a stalker but-

"Whoa, don't even." Peter blinked, feeling completely off-footed by the awkward turn in events. "Uh, not that you're not attractive or anything. But, like, I've got a girlfriend and I am _so_ not stalking you, and maybe we should have this conversation when you've got something a little more clothey covering your junk?"

Johnny narrowed his eyes. "I'll take a third of that as a compliment. And how do I know you're not going to chloroform my ass if I turn around and look for some sweats?"

"What?!"

Before Peter could even begin to comprehend the lengths of Johnny Storm's paranoia, there was a series of knocks at the door. A voice—the voice of Johnny's sister, Susan, sounded from the other side.

"I hate to barge in, but Ben's on the warpath looking for his tube of _Icy Hot_ , and I totally don't want him to think that you had anything to do with it."

Before either Johnny or Peter could respond, the door opened. Susan Storm couldn't have looked more surprised if she'd walked in on a live pterodactyl giving birth. She stared between her brother and Peter with her mouth agape.

Then, after a moment, she seemed to collect herself. "All this time and you never said anything to your own family? Johnny, you know we love you no matter which way you swing."

A booming voice behind Susan called, "Suzie! You better not be trying to cover for that little punk! I know he's got my _Icy Hot_."

"He doesn't," Susan replied. "But he _is_ in here with another dude."

Susan smiled as Johnny scrambled to wrap a bed sheet around himself. Peter wished wildly that the symbiote would give him the power to turn invisible, but the thing seemed to be skulking in petulant silence.

A moment later, the tall, strong form of Ben Grimm nudged Susan out of the way. He looked Peter up and down. "Well, well, well...this explains a lot."

"No!" Peter said sharply. "I mean, we're not—not that I _wouldn't_ or anything but—"

Susan strode into the room after Ben, and patted Peter on the arm. "It's alright, sweetie. You're safe here. This is a judgement free zone, right Ben?"

Ben seemed to be finding the predicament highly amusing; he was smirking at Johnny, who, to his credit, hadn't given any protest, and looked cool as a cucumber.

"Right," Ben said. "Sexuality is fluid and all that crap." He eyed Peter. "Hey, I recognize that mousey mug. You were in the basement last night, weren't you?"

"Yeah," Johnny said. "He was. Says he needs our help. Reed's help, more specifically."

Susan and Ben instantly became serious, for which Peter was very thankful.

"Reed's out of commission," Ben said, the protectiveness in his voice evident. "Those bastards from Hydra roughed him up pretty damn good before they got a hold of our find."

Peter drew a deep breath. Whatever happened next had the potential to be disastrous. But he needed help, and these people were the only ones who were in any way equipped to deal with his predicament.

"Hydra didn't get your rock," he said slowly.

 _no, no, no, no_

The Storm siblings perked up. Ben Grimm frowned, eyeing Peter distrustfully.

"How do you know that?" he said.

"I was down there," Peter said. "Something came out of it before Hydra could get their mitts on it."

 _no, no, no, no_

"The only person in that hangar besides Thor was Spider-Man," Johnny said.

Peter closed his eyes. The symbiote wasn't going to behave. He was tired of it hijacking his thoughts and feelings. It wasn't going to drive him this time. _Show yourself_ , he thought as calmly as he could. _Show them...us. show them how strong we are..._

 _strong, good, hero, power, love us, love me_

 _Yes_ , Peter thought, hoping that the thing wouldn't catch him in the lie. _Yes. These people need to see how strong we are...together._

 _together, unity, symbiosis, us, you, me, we_

Slowly the cool grips of the symbiote crawled along Peter's skin. His street clothes melted away, replaced by the liquidy smooth carapace of the alien suit; solid black throughout, save for the slender white spider spreading across Peter's chest. The suit covered his face, and he found himself staring through the alien eyes at three stunned faces.

The impact of what he'd just done stole upon him with a sinister, choking grip. His voice shaking, he let the symbiote recede down to his neckline.

"Please don't tell anyone."

"'Course we won't tell anyone, dude." Johnny said. Peter smiled in spite of the gravity of his situation.

 _love me, love us, see us, together_

Susan bit her lip. "You said this was what came out of the rock that H.E.R.B.I.E. brought back?"

Peter nodded.

After a moment in which she seemed to be deciding what the best course of action was, Susan said, "You need to come with us."

* * *

Reed Richards had an ACE bandage around his forehead and one black eye, but that didn't prevent the young scientist from hopping to when Susan and Ben—Johnny had stayed in his room to change—brought Peter to an enormous laboratory on the fifth floor. He was talking a mile a minute as he poked, pinched and prodded with various scientific instruments at the symbiote.

"It clearly _is_ alive." He ran some type of digital thermometer over the side of Peter's ribs. "Synthetic, but also organic in a way."

"You might wanna watch where you're pointing that thing," Peter winced. "Is he always like this?"

"This is nothing," Ben said. "You should have seen him when he cracked the quantum equation. The profs at Columbia just about pulled out elephant tranquilizers.

"Columbia?" Peter said. "But weren't you like, sixteen when you were at Columbia?"

"Fifteen," Reed replied. He had his tongue between his teeth and was currently scanning Peter with a handheld X-ray gun. "This is incredible. It's superseded your own clothes, almost as if it really is a second skin."

"I knew it! We really are naked under all these brand names and designer threads." Johnny swaggered into the lab, a fresh pair of sweats and a muscle shirt on. "Hey Reed, make sure you get a selfie of his goods. It's only fair after he barged in on me in my birthday suit."

"Barging in is a strong term," Peter said. Johnny smirked in response and joined his sister and Ben Grimm in watching as Reed continued his examination. "There really wasn't any barging—it was more like fumbling, actually. Although I gotta say, I was more surprised by the Edie Brickell you were rocking out to."

Johnny shrugged. "I know what I know if you know what I mean. And what do you know about that, Doc?" Peter found it somewhat strange for Johnny to be calling Reed "Doc", when Reed had maybe four years age difference on him, if that.

Reed had his tongue between his teeth. He circled to one of the many computers. "Mister Parker, what exactly has this specimen been doing, aside from bonding to your body?"

"Y'know...just imitating organic matter, pumping me with even more strength and agility than normal; giving me an endless supply of webs...oh yeah and it's been talking to me and I think it's also screwing with my already screwed up emotional state."

 _no, not bad, helping, trying, need you_

Reed stared at Peter. "It's been...making you more volatile?"

"Something like that."

Susan scoffed. "That's an understatement, if what's been blowing up Twitter for the last twenty minutes is true."

Peter winced. "Queensboro?"

"Hashtag SpiderKiller," Susan said bracingly. "Although there is a large portion of people bandying about Hashtag WeHeartSpidey."

"Gee, it's so nice to be loved," Peter muttered. J. Jonah Jameson was probably getting off something fierce over Spider-Man's recent antics. "Do you figure that you can...y'know?" He made a snipping gesture with his fingers. "I mean, I kinda went all five finger discount with this in the first place and you're more than welcome to check it back into security, if you get my drift."

Johnny chuckled, elbowing Ben Grimm in the side. "Look at that, Benny boy. He wants to return the merchandise. Think you'll be up for the cavity search?"

"Shut it, numbnuts," Ben muttered.

Reed surveyed Peter for a moment. "It might take some time to discern whether or not it has any weaknesses."

"I'm game for anything, so long as I don't end up turning into the queen of the Zerg."

"No way, dude," Johnny said. "Reed's too pro to let that happen. 'Sides, you strike me more as a Terran kinda guy."

Reed's idea of experimentation soon turned out to be more draining than Peter had initially anticipated. He stood on an observation pad reserved for machines, and allowed himself to be subjected to a litany of abuse. They started small, first tapping the suit with various instruments. When that didn't work, Ben Grimm rather politely asked if Peter would mind it terribly if he socked him in the gut. Peter barely felt the blow. After that came being sprayed with water from first a dentist's hose and then, at last, a high-pressure fireman's hose.

Still, nothing got the symbiote to budge.

Peter scarcely felt any pain, at least on a physical level. Inside, however, he was using all his effort to calm the symbiote, which grew ever more paranoid as Reed Richards and his team upped their efforts to extract it.

 _hurting, pain, threats, why are they doing this, what do they want, help me, save me, save us, make them, stop_

Peter focused on calming the suit, feeding it reassuring lie after reassuring lie. He made himself think of Mary Jane and Eddie and Aunt May. He pictured the terrified father he'd been so close to killing; he made himself think about what Gwen would have said and done—no doubt she would have nailed his feet to the floor until she'd figured out just what the symbiote was.

"Are you sure this isn't hurting you?" Susan asked after the symbiote absorbed a burst of flame from a thrower held by Johnny.

"Not even a scratch," Peter said. "It's really-

 _scared, afraid, panic, angry, hurting us, why_ ,

-kind of pleasant after a while."

Reed bit his lip. "We may have to resort to more drastic measures. Would you mind terribly if we attempted to irradiate you?"

Peter felt his pulse quicken. "I suppose if you think it'll help..."

"Don't worry," Ben said with a mean smile. "We'll accept the liable lawsuit if you end up growing a third nut."

"Not like that would be the strangest thing that ever happened to me," Peter muttered.

Susan pointed to a cylindrical tank that ran from floor to ceiling in one corner of the lab. "We'll be quick, if you'll just step in there."

Peter sighed, but knew that he had no choice. He had to get the damn thing off of him before it

 _why, no, stop, hurting, didn't do anything, did everything, help me_

caused any serious harm to people.

Johnny led Peter towards the tank. They were within six feet of it before Peter felt the rush of panic hit him so fast that his vision blurred. A litany of jumbled thoughts flashed through his brain and he knew that the symbiote was going to

 _lash, hurt, rescue, save us, save you_

do something drastic. The next second he felt his arm jerk sideways. Johnny went sailing through the air. Before Peter could so much as apologize, the symbiote propelled him off the ground and along the outside of the tank it crawled upwards.

 _get away, run away, save us, leave this place_

"Oh shit!" Johnny had recovered himself.

"Get out of here!" Peter yelled. "I don't know what it's going to-

 _stop them, save you, hurt them, danger_

It was making for the window in the ceiling. Peter felt the suit coiling, preparing to make a getaway, and just when he'd found the only people who could possibly help him. Just as the symbiote leapt through the air, Peter fired a web at the tank; he was slammed backwards by the reverse inertia, and dug his fingers into the glass siding.

 _stuck, exposed, in danger, threatened, make them stop, make you stop, trying so hard_

"Stay put!" Reed Richards had picked up some kind of projector gun. "I'll try to blast you and-

The symbiote fired a web at the apparatus and sent it sailing across the room.

 _trapped, don't know my power, don't understand, why are you doing this_

Blobs of black shot out of Peter's wrists. The symbiote was swinging wild, attacking Reed Richards and his team in spite of Peter's efforts to stop it. Obsidian webbing splattered desks and computers and expensive looking machines on the floor below. _  
_  
"Damn it!" Ben Grimm shouted in frustration. Something huge and heavy went flying through the air and collided with the wall behind Peter. The vibration tore through him—body and mind—like a hot knife. He felt the symbiote's grasp slacken; felt the glass of the tank slicing into his bare fingers for the briefest of seconds.

Peter remembered how the suit had trembled that afternoon when he'd yelled at it in the bathroom at Horizon Labs.

Sound.

It couldn't stand intense sound.

"Doctor Richards!" Peter yelled.

"I know!" He'd seen it, obviously. "Get into the tank if you can!"

 _no, no, no, no_

 _Yes_ , Peter thought, forcing himself to focus on his breathing—to calm down even as the symbiote continued to rail and rage. _It's just for a moment. They're going to heal you._

 _don't believe, do believe, are you sure, want to help you, want to help us_

 _I know_ , Peter thought. _I know. But they can help us better right now._

 _hurt us, scared us, hurt us, scared us, hurt us,_

 _And they won't do it anymore. I promise._

The symbiote slackened its control for the briefest of seconds. Peter didn't hesitate—he dropped to the ground and dove through the entrance of the tank. Yet even as the door slid closed behind him, he felt the symbiote tremor in alert.

 _why are they doing this, closed, trapped, afraid, stop it, save us_

A security lock slid into place. Peter felt his body thrash towards the Plexiglas wall; he dug his feet into the floor, fighting against the suit's urge to

 _be free, get out, need to, trust you, trust me, trust us, promised_

escape. But the symbiote's desire was too strong. It launched Peter to the side of the tank and began to crawl towards the chunk that had been torn out of the side. Peter didn't want to think about what would happen if it managed to slither out to the lab.

"DO IT!" Peter cried, hearing his voice horribly projected in the enclosed space. He could see Reed, Susan, Johnny and Ben

 _hurt me, hate them, crush them, kill them_

standing by the cluster of computers. Reed gave Peter one last nod, and hit a series of buttons.

Peter heard the pitch of noise in the tank through the symbiote's senses—it was so high and so sonorous that it made his nose bleed. He fell from the side of the tank to the ground; the supersonic sound was almost blinding, but it was nothing compared to the abject firestorm of screaming from the symbiote as it

 _PAIN, AGONY, WHY, STOP, MAKE IT STOP, SCREAMING, TEARING, HELP US, HELP US, HELP US_

raged in Peter's ears for the briefest of brutal moments. And when, at last, it finally tore itself from his body, it did not go cleanly—it exploded outwards, inky black tendrils clinging to Peter's flesh in its desperation to

 _REMAIN, TOGETHER, US, NEED ME, SAVE US, HURTS, PAIN, WHY, PROMISED, LIAR, LIAR, LIAR_

keep to him. But it was futile. Peter collapsed as the symbiote splattered against the walls of the tank. Spots danced behind his vision. One second he was splayed on the floor, and the next he felt someone pulling him from across the floor. Clean air danced across his bare skin for what felt like the first time in a lifetime, and his mind was mercifully clear.

Someone draped something heavy around his shoulders to cover his body. As his eardrums rapidly repaired themselves after their exposure to the flood of sonic sound, he heard people arguing.

Rubbing the spots from his eyes, Peter saw Susan yelling at Johnny, who was massaging his ears.

"-could have lost your damn hearing, you freaking idiot!" Despite her tone, Susan looked to be on the verge of tears, and a moment later she threw her arms around her younger brother.

It had been he who'd pulled Peter out of the tank.

Johnny frowned, cocking his head to the side. For one heart stopping second, Peter thought that the other man had permanently damaged his hearing. Evidently both Susan and a stone-faced Ben Grimm thought the same thing. Their eyes widened; and then both of them scowled as Johnny cracked a pearly grin and burst into laughter.

"I'm just yanking your crank." He endured what must have been a rather painful belt to the arm from Ben, and a swat to the side of his buzzed head from his sister, before he turned to Peter. "You okay, dude? Can you hear me?"

"Loud as a bell," Peter said shakily. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Reed walking from the tank with some kind of specimen container in his hands. The black mass of the symbiote was squirming and undulating within the case; it was so pathetic, reminding Peter of an injured dog. Part of the mass reached for him, finding nothing but its transparent prison. Peter closed his eyes, remembering the way that the thing had screamed in his ears and his head before it had parted ways with his body.

Susan's small, warm hand curled around Peter's shoulder. "Remember what it was doing to you," she said.

"Right." The chance of him forgetting his ordeal with the symbiote anytime soon was extremely remote.

"We'll start testing this right away." Reed's eyes were alight with a scientific fervor that Peter knew all to well. "If we discover anything serious, we'll inform you right away."

Peter breathed a sigh of exhausted relief. Just the idea of his breath being his own—of his thoughts and feelings being exclusive to himself—was enough to make him laugh, and he did, throwing his head back and letting out all the jubilation he felt.

Johnny, Susan, Ben and Reed all froze. Evidently they were of the mind that Peter, having been through some major trauma, had completely lost his.

"Sorry," Peter said. "It's just...it feels nice. It's quiet."

Johnny grinned. "And it'll feel even nicer once you get cleaned up, my man. You look like death rolled over and then some."

"But you still think I'm pretty, right?"

"I knew there was a reason I didn't break his nose when I came out of the shower," Johnny told the room at large. "Yeah, you're pretty something, dude. But you'll be makin' 'em swoon after a nice hot shower and a change of clothes. You're a little scrawny—no offense—but I've got some spare threads that'll fit you."

"Look, Suzie," Ben said. "He's already getting a hang if being on the other side of the rainbow." Ben stuck his tongue out at Johnny, who responded by flipping the bigger man off.

As Peter left the lab, the industrial tarp still wrapped around him, he felt like he could fly from happiness. It was over, well and truly over. He could go home, explain everything to MJ, and to Eddie. He could think clearly, feel clearly and do his best to make amends for all the damage that the symbiote had inflicted on his life.

But just as he reached the double doors, Johnny cracking jokes at his side, he felt a dull pulse in his spider-sense.

Frowning, Peter glanced behind to the lab.

But there was nothing there except for Susan, Reed and Ben, and the wide, cluttered laboratory.

Johnny paused. "What's up, man?"

Peter shook his head, and turned away from the lab. "Nothing," he said, even though his spider-sense continued to tingle like the smallest hum of electricity. "It was nothing."


	8. Reunion

"Yo, Pete. You alright, man? You're spacing out on me something fierce."

Peter blinked, not realizing that he'd been staring out the window of the Morales family kitchen for the better part of two minutes. Miles, sitting next to him at the table, was watching him with mild annoyance.

"Hm? Sorry. Just, uh...appreciating the beautiful weather."

"Whatever." Miles scoffed. "You only happy when it rains or something?" It had been pouring buckets since that morning, putting a literal and proverbial damper on the Morales' plans for a barbecue. They'd moved the action indoors for a good old-fashioned dinner, something that Peter hadn't realized he'd needed after his time with the symbiote.

"I am known to be a fan of Shirley Manson," Peter said, sticking his tongue out at his young friend. "Nah. It's just...I've just been kind of on edge lately." By the time he'd finished his shower at the Baxter Building the day before, he'd determined for himself that he was going to try and make a crack at being honest with the people in his life.

But on edge didn't even come close to describing the constant state of alert that his spider-senses had been in since tearing the symbiote off of his body. He'd felt as if he were pinned by some great, exterior eye since leaving the lab. The watching and waiting feeling was not only plain creepy, it had become something of a nuisance. He hadn't been able to sleep a wink, despite MJ being curled up next to him, and the gentle lullaby of the rain.

He scooted his chair closer to Miles. The Morales house was kept almost fastidiously tidy and clean by Rio and her son. Now that they had company, it was almost sparkling despite the small size of the rooms.

"What's bothering you?"

"English," Miles said.

Right. Homework. Peter had been helping Miles with his English essay when he'd found himself zoning out.

"It's lame," Miles went on. "Like, what good is it anyway? It's not like Science or Math—what do I care about Frankenstein?"

"A lot if it means you get full credits," Rio said as she elbowed the kitchen door open. MJ was close behind her, carrying the latest batch of delicious food from her and Peter's house next door. Given the relative size of Rio's kitchen, along with the number of guests they expected, the food prep was being done entirely in Peter and MJ's kitchen.

"Besides, you're working with the master of the classics," MJ chimed in, giving Peter a dazzling smile.

"No way, baby. You know Shakespeare like the back of your pretty little hand."

"And you had one of the best damn English students in Midtown High as a study buddy." MJ grinned, and Peter felt as if he could bleed from how much he loved her. He'd always feared that she'd feel threatened by the ghosts of his past; and yet she'd only ever shown respect for Gwen Stacy, and what it was that she'd meant to him.

Mary Jane set down the tray of tin foil covered chicken wings and peered at the worksheet Miles had been given with his essay. "What exactly is it that's filtering your Snapchat?"

Miles grimaced. "I'll tell you as soon as you promise never to use that expression again."

"Deal."

"It's this damn poem. Uh, I mean, _darn_ poem," he added after a look from his mother.

"Coleridge, huh?" MJ quirked an eyebrow, and then proceeded to recite the piece with as much focus and attention as if she were speaking to a Broadway audience. " _Like one that on a lonesome road, doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turned round, walks on, and turns no more his head. Because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread_ …"

A mischievous sparkle glinted in her sea-green eyes. "It means that this dude saw something way creepy behind him and isn't looking back because he's afraid of seeing it again."

Miles gaped at her. "Well, why don't they just say that?"

"Because," MJ replied, "then there would be too many people graduating high school."

Miles groaned, and Peter patted the back of his hand sympathetically. Rio finished doling potato salad out into an enormous plastic bowl. "Okay, kiddo, I think you've worked hard enough. Put the books away and help me with the chips, yeah?"

Rio may as well have announced that she'd gotten engaged to Tony Stark. Miles jumped up, his eyes gleaming. "Thanks, Mama." He hurried out of the kitchen, books under his arm. Rio smirked; for all the grief she gave her son, she knew the kind of kid he was at heart and wasn't about to keep his nose to the grindstone during such a night.

Peter stretched and got to his feet. "Anything else I can help with?"

"Oh hell no," Rio said. "No offense, but your cooking skills could make a garbage disposal upchuck." She smiled sweetly at the outrage on Peter's face.

MJ threaded an arm through Peter's. "Come on, Wolfgang Puck. You can help me clear up the Beverly Hills breast implant-huge mess we left in the sink."

They hurried through the rain, MJ keeping her head bent. Peter checked their surroundings as his spider-sense continued to warn him of some nearby danger. But by the time he and Mary Jane made it to their own kitchen, the need to keep an eye on whatever was keeping an eye on him evaporated. MJ's hair was soaked through from running between the two houses in the rain; her denim jacket was plastered to her skin, and she smelled like the cooling downpour outside.

Peter pulled her close, crushing his lips to hers and savoring the way she melted into him.

"Don't...think...that you're...going to weasel…out...of...not spilling...the beans...because of this," MJ said through the brief intervals when she wasn't leaving Peter devoid of oxygen with her lips and tongue.

"No weaseling," Peter said after they broke apart. He looked into her eyes, feeling that familiar security that he'd felt since the night they'd first met each other. "I just want you all to be in the same room when I tell you what's been happening."

"Why?" MJ stuck her tongue out. "Want me to protect you in case Eddie goes on a rampage?"

"Always," Peter said with mock-seriousness. "There's that, and I also just, y'know...feel like I need to apologize to all of you."

"If you feel that's what's best, Tiger." She strode to the obscenely full sink, where Peter joined her in rinsing off the dishes that had been used to make their impending feast.

"What about you, baby? How goes it now that you're over the opening night jitters?"

MJ shrugged, stacking the dishwasher as Peter handed her the rinsed cookware. "Living the dream." But there was something off in her tone, something that made him frown.

"MJ, if there's something wrong, I wanna help..."

Her shoulders heaved. She stood up straight, an all-too familiar storm brewing in her eyes. Peter had just enough time to start to panic over what it was that had gotten into MJ before he heard the sound of a car pull up to the sidewalk.

Mary Jane shrugged again and went back to stocking the dishwasher. A moment later, the front door opened and Aunt May and Eddie were practically blown inside by the wind and the rain.

"I swear to God, this is another hurricane," Aunt May said as she shed her jacket.

Eddie leaned on his cane as he wrung out the ends of his shaggy hair. "Don't worry, Aunt May. Now that it's raining more than ever, you can stand under my umbrella."

"Ella, ella," both Peter and MJ chorused. Mary Jane smirked, but Peter's earlier anxiety didn't dissipate. MJ hadn't taken to the stage for nothing. She was even better at hiding things than he was at times, and she didn't even have the excuse of an alien suit to keep under wraps.

"Rio and Miles are setting up the grubs," MJ told Aunt May. "But Peter has something he'd like to announce before-

Miles chose that moment to burst in through the side door and announce, "Dinner is served! Oh! Hey Aunt May; Eddie. Good to see you. Hey, did you guys know that the poem at the beginning of _Frankenstein_ is about some pansy who doesn't wanna look over his shoulder?"

MJ narrowed her eyes at the interruption. Peter distinctly heard her mutter something that would have put a truck driver to shame. But she followed Eddie and Aunt May out the door and back into the rain. Peter waited for a moment, wondering if there was some external force at work, keeping him from telling those closest to him about the symbiote.

 _Maybe it's okay for now_ , he thought as hurried into the rain and back to Rio's house. He still hadn't heard from Reed Richards or the others. Being armed with more knowledge regarding the symbiote before he told MJ, Aunt May and Eddie the truth was preferable to simply asking for their forgiveness without explaining why he'd seemingly gone off the deep end.

Just as he made to cross the threshold into Rio and Miles's kitchen, Peter felt the steady alert of his spider-senses peak, almost as if he'd heard his name being whispered. He stopped, and stared down the alley behind the house. But not even so much as a cat was braving the downpour. It was almost seven at night, on a weekend. Dazzler's concert hadn't been called off in spite of the weather; nobody in his or her right mind would be lurking outside.

"Looking to drown yourself?" Eddie was standing near the coat closet.

"Sorry." Peter hurried inside.

"Don't be," Eddie said. "For that, I mean. I think the whole Jack Dawson thing looks good on you. Makes you look all needy and shit."

"Language!" Rio called.

Eddie rolled his eyes, but said, obligingly, "M'sorry. Miles, don't swear. It shows a lack of character, intelligence and financial responsibility."

"Nobody's saying that," Peter said as they took their seats.

"But nobody's _not_ saying that either," Eddie added cheekily.

The previous Christmas had been spent in the recovery ward of the Metropolitan Hospital. Eddie's injuries had been severe, and even though the nurses had abided all of Eddie's loved ones eating turkey dinner from the hospital kitchen in the waiting area, it had still been quite lacking in terms in the tidings of comfort and joy department. Easter dinner had likewise been waylaid by the Battle of the Bronx.

So the simple potluck dinner was almost like a feast. Rio and MJ had outdone themselves with gleaming chicken wings coated in hot, teriyaki and honey garlic sauces. Peter piled heaps of creamy potato salad onto his plate, along with buttery corn on the cob. Miles had started in on his third helping by the time the adults were starting in on seconds. Peter helped himself to the refreshing margarita mix that Rio had prepared for the occasion; he was pleased to note that Eddie was keeping himself on a tight leash when it came to the boozey slush; he'd only had two cups before settling on a glass of water with ice.

"Miles Morales, don't think I didn't see that," Rio said sharply. She'd gotten up to grab the dessert from her fridge and Miles, in a courageous display of daring, had attempted to steal a spoonful of the margarita out of its bowl.

Aunt May had indulged in a little too much of Rio's frozen cocktail, and had taken Miles by the hand, pinning him with serious if unsteady stare.

"Listen to me, Miles. I'm about to give you some very important advice that my mother gave me: when you've found a man with big hands and big feet, then you know you've found a good man."

"Okay, Mrs. Parker." Miles was quaking with suppressed laughter.

Peter smiled, but he knew it was halfhearted. As good as the meal had been, as happy as he was to see his family so relaxed for a change, he'd been vexed by his spider-sense throughout it all. The feeling of being watched by something from the outside had more than once caused him to look out the window to the dark, rain washed street. Every slight sound—every shuffle of feet against the floor or sharp intake of breath—drew his attention and set him on edge. He thought back to the almost audible sensation he'd felt upon leaving the house next door. Was his mind simply playing tricks on him? Or was there really a threat lurking on the periphery of his senses?

He felt something knock against his foot underneath the table. MJ had her eyes on him; Eddie did as well, for that matter.

"What's eating you, Tiger?"

Peter shook his head. "Nothing. Just, uh, had too much to drink." He rubbed at his eyes as, once more, he felt the insidious press of his spider-sense warning him. "I'll be right back. Gotta use the john."

"Miles is in there, Pete," Rio said as she swirled a mountain of whipped cream on top of a banana cream pie. "I wouldn't recommend it even if he _isn't_ doing his business in there."

Peter grimaced. "Good to know."

He got to his feet and headed back out into the dark and the rain. The wind had picked up, blowing the deluge on an angle that soaked Peter through in a matter of seconds. The whistling rush of it along the street wreaked havoc on Peter's senses, both primary and otherwise. He felt his spider-sense spike as he grasped the handle of the screen door to his home.

 _What the hell is going on_? Peter thought through gritted teeth. Not even being inside the relative peace and quiet of his little slice of domestic heaven helped to alleviate his mounting sense that something was very, _very_ wrong.

Had his separation from the symbiote damaged his spider-sense? Certainly the extraction had been agonizing for both host and parasite.

Peter walked to the bathroom as if he were crossing an active prison camp. He could feel that horrible sensation all the while—it was voyeuristic and it made his skin crawl. Flicking on the light in the bathroom made his heart skip a beat as the fluorescent glow chased away the worst of the shadows. He half-expected to see something looming in the corner.

But there was only pale blue tile and the translucent shower curtain.

Peter splashed cold water on his face, half-entertaining the notion that it would actually do anything to make him feel better. But still, nothing. He closed his eyes, and tried to count ten while he focused on his breathing.

 _One...two..._

Was somebody tailing him? He knew that even in his civilian identity he had ruffled a few feathers. But those people had no idea where he and MJ lived, and surely they would have shown themselves by now?

 _...three...four..._

Supposing there really was something wrong with his powers, post-symbiote? What if he was more useless now than he had been these last few months?

 _...five...six..._

Why hadn't Reed Richards called? Had Peter been wrong about the symbiote? Was it really just a harmless alien entity after all? Had everything he'd done and thought and said in these last few days come directly from that dark place in his own mind?

 _...seven...eight..._

 _Stop panicking_ , Peter thought, even as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Something was coming.

Something was coming to get him.

 _...nine..._

 _turn around, turn around, turn around_

 _...ten._

Peter spun on his heel and wrenched the door open, prepared to reign down holy hell on whatever it was that had made his spider-senses go haywire.

MJ leapt backwards as if a bomb had gone off, her scream of surprise splitting Peter's eardrums in half. Eddie, standing a little way behind her, started but managed to stay upright thanks to his cane.

"Peter! What the hell has gotten into you?!"

Peter felt himself deflate. "What are you trying to do, get yourself killed?" he said, his voice shaking.

MJ glowered at him, but it was Eddie who spoke, his voice light. "No, we're trying to see if you were shooting up in the bathroom, if you really must know."

" _What_? I would never-

"Yeah, well, what else are we supposed to think?" Mary Jane wrapped her arms around herself; the run from the house next door had soaked her through once again. She glared at Peter. "You're acting so damn...off these last few days. One minute you're down in the dumps and the next second you're on top of the world. And don't even get me started on what happened on the bridge." Her voice broke, and she looked at her feet as if hating herself for even voicing these thoughts.

But Mary Jane Watson wasn't one to back down from anything.

"I need to know-" the tears in her eyes cut Peter like a garrotte wire "—are you on something, Tiger?"

Peter felt his own eyes burn. The next second he had her in his arms, shaking like a leaf. He hated that he'd made her afraid—that he'd made all of them afraid. But MJ had grown up under such nightmarish circumstances: an abusive father, a mother who'd killer herself to escape it all...Peter knew that Mary Jane had seen and endured the brunt of a loved one keeping a skeleton buried in their closet. How could he have been so stupid as to put her through it—to risk all they'd built together since Doc Ock over something like pride?

He met Eddie's eyes over MJ's shoulder. Even though Eddie wasn't crying, thankfully, there was something in his steel-grey eyes that made Peter feel an unexpected urge to reach out to his best friend and touch him. He'd hurt them all, and he'd possibly hurt Eddie the most by being so callous since Cletus Kasady's attack.

He felt as if he'd damaged everything beyond repair.

But with MJ shaking in his arms and Eddie's eyes on him as if he were seeing something he'd never seen before, Peter realized with shuddering clarity, that he hadn't completely destroyed things.

Not yet, anyway.

He could still fix this.

"It's...it was like a drug." He cupped MJ's face in both of his hands, looking into her beautiful green eyes. "I should never have let it on me, but-

"On you? What are you talking about?"

"My suit. It—

"Your suit?" Eddie said incredulously. He strode across the room to the closet, pulled out Peter's backpack. "There's nothing wrong with your suit, man." Eddie unzipped the top of the bag, pulled out the tattered red-and-blue costume and threw it on the floor. "See? You were kosher for months—well, not entirely, maybe, but then again, none of us were—before you started acting like the almost-murdering person who almost-murders people."

Peter sighed, his eyes traveling to the suit on the floor. The white eyes of his costume stared back at him. It hadn't been that long ago that he'd worn it, and yet it seemed foreign to him now. The black spider insignia in the middle of the chest had its legs spread, almost imploring him to take it back.

And as he stared, black seeped slowly out from the spider, covering the rest of the costume. Peter's spider-senses went haywire, and he heard the sibilant voice of the thing in his head, ringing loud and clear:

 _found you, found you, found you, found you, found you, found you, found you, found you_

Peter's eyes went wide. A mass of black like a living shadow was rising up from his costume. It was mimicking the shape of Spider-Man, it's baleful, livid white eyes fixed on Peter.

Eddie cried out in surprise and backed against the wall, dropping his cane in the process.

Peter didn't think twice before he threw MJ across the room onto their bed. MJ gasped in surprise and indignation, and screamed the next second as she saw the coiling entity preparing to strike.

"GET OUT OF HERE!" Peter yelled. The symbiote was swaying from side to side like a King cobra, readying itself to

 _strike, kill, hurt me, hurt you, run, run, run as fast as you can_

MJ didn't move. Eddie was watching the symbiote with his mouth wide. They were both frozen in silent horror.

The symbiote turned its insidious gaze to MJ.

 _mine, ours, take her, so sweet, so smooth_

"NO!" Peter dove towards the thing. But he realized that this was what the foul thing had wanted the entire time—a chance to be reunited with its original host.

And as the thing bore down upon him like some nightmare tsunami, Peter realized that this was what his spider-sense had been warning him about.

He saw MJ's confused and terrified face and she was so

 _frightened, delicious and scared, ours, so beautiful, so soft_

perfect. And Eddie, trying to stand without the aid of his cane. So strong. So brave in spite of all he'd suffered.

Then his vision swam as the symbiote engulfed him once more. Every negative thought and feeling he'd ever had consumed his being: hatred, despair, jealousy, wrath...he felt it boil his blood to unbearable, searing heat. He saw snatches of his own memory-of his parents abandoning him with Aunt May and Uncle Ben

 _hate them, left us, didn't care, like you, little liar_

-of Uncle Ben bleeding on the sidewalk-

 _your fault, our fault, his blood, our choice, hurt me, stop me_

He saw Gwen fall to her death as Harry's twisted face laughed from the top of the clock tower-

 _lost her, too weak, too slow, no no, not you, your fault, never yours, left me, kill you, save you_

-and he saw Eddie, pale and losing blood after Cletus Kasady's attack.

 _monster, couldn't save him, lost him, still here, save him, kill them, killed me, hurt me._

He felt a sense of alien muscle memory—remembered having been pinched and prodded and set aflame; felt the sting of a thousand volts of electricity and the numb pain of sub-zero temperatures as Reed Richards and his team experimented on him.

No. Not him.

The symbiote.

He was experiencing its memories, all that it had been through during their time before the separation. He saw it crawling up the sides of the tank as excruciating sound beat against its body:

 _so loud, hurts, never forget, traitor, promised me, promised us_

saw it slithering along buildings and alleys as it followed in him and lay in wait in the shadows, biding its time and building its rage until it could

 _strike, claim, hurt, missing, pieces, lost, shattered, other_

reunite.

Pain ratcheted up Peter's arm. His vision cleared; he was on one knee, his fingers digging into the wall, his opposite hand tearing into the hardwood floor. It was brief clarity, and he didn't know if he would be able to keep a hold of it.

He stared at MJ and Eddie, memorizing their faces in case this turned out to be the last time he ever-

 _No_ , he thought, pushing against the tumultuous thoughts of the symbiote. _I won't let you hurt them_.

He had to get out. Had to find somewhere

 _safe, nowhere, thought we were, with you, but you, liar, truth teller, killed us, tore us_

he could rid himself of the damnable parasite once and for all.

"Peter...?" MJ's voice—God, her beautiful, beautiful voice—sounded almost hopefully from the floor near where Eddie had slid against the wall. She'd immediately gone to help him, because of course she had. Of course she was that damn brave, and if Eddie could have found the strength to move past the pain of his debilitation, he would have done the same for Mary Jane.

"Run," Peter growled. He sprang from the floor, gouging huge chunks out of the wall and the hardwood. Glass shattered as he jumped out the window and into the rainy night. He had to

 _suffer, hurt me, why, love you, need you_

find something loud, something that could tear the

 _never, not going to let you, why did you do this, we know why, we did bad_

symbiote from his body. He ran down the alley, his body jerking spasmodically as the symbiote fought against him, trying to sink further into his skin and stop him from severing their tie.

He didn't know where he was going. Lights and rain passed him by; those few brave souls who were out in the storm screamed as they saw the black alien beast thrashing its way through Queens. He crossed the street, clawing at his own skin. A car squealed to a stop in front of him. Peter turned and felt himself scream in rage at the thing. The people inside tore from the safety of the car and scattered. Blinded by the thoughts and screams of the symbiote, he tore through the borough, trying to rid it from his body.

There were lights coming from somewhere. Bright lights. And sound, sound that

 _hurt us, pain, tearing, shredding, rip us, rend us, bleed us,  
_  
made the symbiote bristle and clamp against his flesh even tighter.

Pulling all his strength and effort, Peter ran for the sight of the sound, hoping and praying that he could hold on—that this time he could actually sever the symbiote from his body and mind for good.


	9. Dazzling Lights

Alison Blaire had been as surprised as anybody that she could still pack a fourteen thousand capacity stadium like Forest Hills at the age of forty-six. The music industry tended to not be kind to women over forty whose names didn't rhyme with Shmadonna. Add to the fact that she was a mutant, and Alison thanked her lucky stars that she could still draw the masses.

Not even that day's rain had done anything to put a literal and metaphorical damper on the turnout. Alison felt the energy of the screaming crowd like a shot of adrenaline to the heart, and she'd been a famous teen idol in the Eighties, so she knew from adrenaline.

Her band wasn't even through its first set and already Alison felt her skin prickling from the charge that the noise from the audience and her own pulse-pounding music was giving her. Lights danced all around the stage, wowing the cheering crowd with an impressive display of pyrotechnics, flashes and optical illusions.

Of course, they all knew that Alison was a mutant.

She'd outed herself in the Nineties, touting the moniker "Mutant and Proud," after the recommendation of her personal hero, and savior of Richard Nixon, Raven. And yet, despite the rather large press conference she'd held, most of Alison's fanbase hadn't deserted her. In fact, she'd found herself with a slough of new fans, and they hadn't stopped buying her records or turning out to her shows since.

Well, except for that one period in the early Oughts when she'd tried going "punk" but the less was said about that, the better she slept at night.

The song ended, and the applause and screams swelled. Alison felt it in her pores, felt her energy levels spike. She let the light flow forth, too well acquainted with what happened when she kept that kind of energy in. Soft pastel flowers shimmered through the air, a projection of light that flowed from Alison's willpower into beautiful, prismatic shapes.

"Do you love your Dazzler?" Alison asked the crowd in a moment of sheer, unabashed ego.

The thunderous screams were enough of an answer, filling Alison to the brim with power. Of course they loved their Dazzler. Why else would they be out in this rain? They loved her because she'd used her gift to give back to them—and not just her mutant gift either. They loved her because she wasn't on the front page of Buzzfeed for some scandal; she was true to her art and her fans and her tribe. The fact that she'd given everyone some serious nostalgia vibes by growing her luxurious blonde locks out long again and wearing a silver full body sleeveless pantsuit in tribute to what she'd worn back when she'd cut her fist album in '83 probably helped as well.

Behind her, the band began to cue up for the next song. It was a bit of a stretch, given that most of the concert's music line-up had been based of newer material. But this upbeat little ditty had been recorded in the Nineties shortly after Alison had outed her mutation. It was an optimistic song, odd given that she'd written it after a terrorist attack had killed scores of mutants in the sheltered mutant paradise of Genosha. Alison hadn't hopped on the same bandwagon as most of her fellows and demanded justice-instead she'd leant on her music, and this song had been the one that had healed her the most.

" _If they take my hand, will it be to burn me or to say amen.._." The crowd went ballistic, many of them knowing the root of the song, and others just digging the way it sounded.

" _…we beckon so we can make amends, and with the same flip of the hand we curse our friends..."_

Something moved along the top of the stadium wall to Alison's left. She continued singing, but watched, sure that she'd seen something there...but perhaps it had been a trick of her own lightshow, or maybe even the rain?

She sent a stream of lights like shooting stars across the arena as the music swelled. The added bonus of making her audience go ape was also that it illuminated the entire perimeter Forest Hills Stadium.

Alison saw what it was that had caught her attention, and it was fortunate that she saw it during the brief musical interlude between verses; shock stole her breath for a lightning second. There was a man on the edge of the stadium's many risers. She had seen him through the rain, his clothing tattered and torn as something black and misshapen tried to devour him.

Despite her momentary pause, Alison wasn't as off put as she might have been. Firstly because thirty two years of touring and performing had prepared her for anything to happen, and compared to the clientele at a dive bar on Yancey Street, seeing some weird black ooze trying to devour some poor schlub from a distance was practically tea and a cheeky bit of cake.

And secondly, Alison had encountered far stranger things when she'd been a part of a team of mutant heroes. Indeed, her good friend, Professor Jean Grey, had died and been resurrected by a cosmic firebird, gone insane, died and come back to life again in the amount of time it had taken Alison to cut a record.

So this really was nothing to sneeze at.

Besides, she had been looking forward to this venue—Forest Hills had been her first big concert all those decades ago. She wasn't about to let some tricked out pile of tar ruin things for her, or anyone else for that matter.

"… _where it's all a blur, you are the hard line_..." Alison let the sound of the screaming crowd, the crescendo of her band, and her own voice fill her like heady liquor. She kept her eyes trained on the spot above the crowd where she could just see the oozy beast bearing down on its poor victim.

"… _when the riot's stir, you are the sound mind…and in the disorder, you are the peace sign_..."

She made a gun with her finger and thumb, as if shooting a sassy here's-lookin'-at-you-kid to her adoring audience. A bolt of pure photon energy shot out of the tip of Alison's finger. It soared over the heads of the awed crowd and connected with the obsidian mud monster.

Smirking, Alison returned her attention to her whooping and screaming crowd, oblivious to the fact that she'd just saved a man's life.

* * *

He was falling. His strength, sapped from his very bones by the agonizing struggle to even make it to Forest Hills Stadium, wasn't going to save him now. Peter thought it appropriate that this was how he was going to die—falling from immense height. It was almost freeing, really, even as he saw his life and all the people in it flash behind his eyes.

It was almost laughable. Killed at a Dazzler concert, by the woman herself no less. Alison Blaire had long revealed her mutant identity to the public. The bombastic sound of her concert had been enough to sever the symbiote from Peter's body. But the thing had been rampant in its desire to remain. Alison's photon blast had splattered the thing to several pieces, but it had also knocked Peter clear off the side of the stadium.

He was going to die now. At least he'd been able to keep MJ and Eddie and everyone else back home safe.

His fall stopped abruptly. Peter was exhausted, mentally and physically. Part of him just wanted the whole ordeal to be over. He could feel the rain splattering against his skin, seeping through the shredded remains of his clothes.

Through the blur of his vision and the deluge of rain, he saw the symbiote clinging to the side of the stadium. One long black tendril had wrapped around Peter's ankle. He could see one if its eyes, white as a ghost and staring at him almost...sadly.

 _sorry, save you, hurt you, forgive us, never meant, only wanted to help_

Slowly, the thing lowered Peter to the sodden earth below the stadium walls. Darkness and rain surrounded him. The symbiote slithered down the rest of the wall, and Peter tensed, terrified that the thing would try to consume him once more.

He couldn't let it, but was so exhausted that he couldn't fight it. He wanted MJ, needed her warmth and resolve. He wanted Eddie, wanted the familiarity and strength. Aunt May...he hadn't even gotten to say goodbye or apologize or explain himself...

 _save you...only you...leave us...save you...hero...hide you..._

Peter felt his body scrape and slide along the ground. The symbiote was dragging him away into the shelter of an alley.

 _Somebody_ , he thought, _somebody...help me_.

 _we help you now...find our pieces...fix us...save us...save them all..._

Something heavy and wet covered Peter's body. The last thing he saw before unconsciousness swept him away was the sight of the symbiote, crawling along the filthy alley.

Just before he blacked out, Peter thought he saw the alien mass stop and look back at him, that same regretful sadness in its eye.

* * *

It wasn't the first night that Mary Jane Watson had had to clean the glass from a broken window in her own home. Her damnable father had shattered a window more than once during MJ's childhood, and it had almost become a monthly ritual to sweep the fragments into a garbage bag and tape plastic wrap around the window frame.

But her hand wasn't anywhere nearly as steady as it had been in those days. And by the time she'd gotten her wits together after Peter—no, the _thing_ that had consumed Peter—had torn out the window, she'd already started crying.

Now, however, her tears fell more out of anger at the entire situation than fear and shock.

"Give me that." Eddie had been doing his best to help, what with the condition he was in. He'd grabbed the Duct tape and Saran wrap from the kitchen, and doubled the garbage bags. But MJ's hands were shaking so badly, and she was so overwhelmed by the detonation of emotion that had gone off in her heart.

"I can do it myself," MJ said through gritted teeth. The next second she proved herself grievously wrong when a shard of glass in the dust pan fell to the floor if the bedroom and broke into even more fragments. "God damn it!" MJ thrust the pan at Eddie and collapsed on her and Peter's bed, feeling as if she could break every piece of furniture in the house.

She wanted Eddie to tell her to calm down—to give the usual plethora of clichés that most people would dole out under the circumstances. But he didn't; he set about sweeping up the remaining glass, balancing himself with surprising grace on his cane. He hadn't had that much to drink at Rio's house, something MJ had to commend him for. When Eddie wasn't drinking his pain away he could be remarkably on the ball, as evidenced by the last few days.

They'd both noticed the shift in Peter's behavior. Eddie hadn't let himself get above being buzzed, determined to have sobriety in case he needed to confront or help Peter.

MJ was so grateful to have Eddie in the room at that moment—so thankful that he recognized when she needed space and time to just let the chaos of her emotions chow down on her—that she started crying all over again.

"Who lets this kind of thing happen, huh, Eddie?" She pounded at the bedspread. "Who just sits back and lets their boyfriend carry on like he's got _Sybil_ levels of split personality disorder?"

"People who just started performing in an anticipated show on Broadway," Eddie said quietly. "Also I think it's called dissociative identity disorder. And also it's not a real medical term."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil. Anything else you wanna diagnose while you're at it?"

Eddie sighed, plopping the bag of broken glass into the garbage bin in the bathroom. He stumped across the floor to sit next to MJ.

"Yeah, how's this? We're all in the shit right now, kid. Me a little bit more so, what with my inability to walk properly. Pete's obviously bitten off something with that Dementor or whatever the hell it was. And you..." His clever grey eyes raked over her tearstained face. A tick worked in Eddie's jaw. "You still haven't spilled with him, huh?"

MJ shook her head. "We keep getting interrupted. And...and I'm so scared that he'll take it bad." He had so much on his plate as it stood, being Spider-Man. Neither she, nor Aunt May or Eddie hadn't noticed the funk that Peter had gotten into after The Avengers had shown up. He buried it so well, or at least he thought he had.

And now this.

The spark of anger that Mary Jane had tried to drown came surfacing back. "Why the hell does it have to matter to him? Why can't he just be happy with a quiet life, goddamn it!?"

Eddie stared at her in astonishment, and MJ instantly felt ashamed of of her outburst.

"I shouldn't have said that," she murmured.

Eddie shook his head. "Whatever, MJ. This isn't as plain and simple as lipstick on his collar or whatever. It's just...I mean, it's his thing, right? Like, you have acting and Pete's got...swinging around the city in spandex and saving people from burning buildings. Or, at least he did. Now it's more like he's the one setting the buildings on fire..."

Laughing a hollow laugh, MJ said, "And I'll bet my first paycheck that it's got something to do with that xenomorph mofo. But why didn't he say anything?" Her voice shook. Peter _was_ secrets, that much she'd determined before they'd even properly met. He'd kept Spider-Man under tightly wound wraps from everyone-Aunt May, Eddie...MJ was quite certain the only person he'd ever divulged the secret to was Gwen Stacy. She hated that it made her jealous sometimes. Gwen had meant something important to Peter, enough that he'd let his greatest secret slip to her.

And yet everyone else had been left in the dark. In her darkest moments—times that filled her with a choking self-loathing—she wondered if she really stacked up to Peter's late first love.

"I love him so much..." MJ's voice shook.

Eddie threaded his fingers through hers, and grasped her hand tightly.

"I know," Eddie said. "So do I."

MJ saw so much of her own pain reflected in his eyes—raw and naked, and full of fear. He tried so hard to suffocate any vulnerability. It was why he loathed what Cletus Kasady had done to him so much.

MJ bit her lip. "Sometimes I...I think about just giving up..."

The familiar, blazing heat that was Eddie Brock flared to life once again. "Don't even think about it, Red."

"I know. It's just-

"I'm serious. If you try running out on him, I'll—well, I mean, _I_ won't do anything because, like, I love you. But I will get my buddy after you. He's a Canadian merc who looks the other way when paid properly."

MJ laughed. "Damn it. Stop cheering me up."

"Fine then, I'll print off my Facebook feed and let you be depressed all the livelong day."

"What are we going to do? Like...where the hell do you think he went?"

Eddie sighed. "Wish I knew. Knowing Peter, probably somewhere really far away and noble-y."

For a long time they sat there in miserable silence, neither knowing what to do, but both grateful that they had each other.

"I'm gonna go next door," MJ said after a while. "Rio probably thinks we're over here having a Peter, Paul and Mary."

"You wish." Eddie wiggled his eyebrows. "And you stay put. Peter might come back and he's probably going to be more willing to listen to you than he is me." Eddie got to his feet he was halfway to the door when MJ called his name.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah boo boo?"

MJ rolled her eyes. "Do you actually know a Canadian mercenary?"

"Yeah. He was one of the senior brothers at my frat when I was at Emerson. He did something with the military for a bit, but now he's doing merc work." Eddie shrugged. "Nice enough guy. Mouth like a trucker on bath salts. Not altogether there in the head, but still not below going out for some chimichangas with."

MJ chuckled. "I'll remember that."

Once Eddie was gone, MJ took a moment to get herself—or as much as she could of herself—together. She scrubbed her face with some cold water, trying not to think about the horrible, twisted face of that black shadow. Then she grabbed her phone and began blowing up Peter's number like it was nobody's business.

 _Come on Tiger_ , she thought after the fifth attempt to connect with him. _Please be okay_...the thought of losing him was almost enough to make her start crying again. The thought that she'd left things with him in such a state of disarray before he'd been consumed by the black tar monster from hell really did make her let out a sob.

After the fourteenth ring, MJ threw her iPhone across the room with a scream and a curse.

The doorbell rang; Mary Jane collided with the bedroom door and several things in the hallway in hurry haste to answer. It was Peter, she was sure of it. He'd come home—come back to her. MJ threw the door open, prepared to collapse against the wiry strength of Peter's chest...

A young woman, at least seven years or so older than MJ, stood on the front step, an enormous, transparent umbrella forming an invisible force field against the rain.

Her eyes widened when she saw MJ. " _Les Miserables_ girl?"

" _The Big Sleep_ girl," MJ replied dryly, taking in the women's long, Humphrey Bogart style trench coat and blonde hair.

The woman shook herself of her surprise. "Ah, sorry. I'm looking for Peter Parker?"

A host of possibilities stole across MJ's mind, but she ignored them. "So am I, actually. Given that I'm his girlfriend, that job is usually reserved for me. What exactly do you want him for?"

"My name is Susan Storm," the woman said. "I'm an associate of Reed Richards."

She'd been in the Baxter Building the night that Peter had gone there. Frowning, MJ motioned for Susan to come in out if the downpour. "Sorry for the late call," Susan said. "But Reed did say that we'd let Peter know as soon as we found anything serious out about his...uh, illness."

Susan glanced at MJ as she set down her purse. She seemed to decide something for herself and said, "Are you...privy to anything about Peter that would...make you, I don't know...feel like _crawling up a wall_?"

MJ stared in frozen disbelief. But she couldn't deny her curiosity. "Yes," she said, and Susan seemed to relax.

"Where is he?"

MJ took a deep breath, remembering the horrible face of that dark mass; how it had completely consumed Peter's body. In spite of her best efforts, her voice shook to the verge of breaking once more. She collapsed onto the sofa, burying her head in her hands.

"I was afraid of that," Susan sighed. MJ saw the blonde woman take an iPad out of her purse. "We found out what it is that came out of the space rock."

"The what?"

Susan frowned. "That's where the symbiote—that black thing that changed Peter's costume—came from. We brought something back from a part of the universe. Something we shouldn't have."

"So it's your fault that that thing has been making Peter crazy?" MJ said hotly.

"Actually it's Thor's," Susan sighed. "Mjolnir is a godly weapon. It smashed the symbiote's rock open...we don't even think it was a rock. More like an egg."

"So it's an alien?"

Susan nodded. She turned her iPad on and showed MJ a pictured of what looked like a piece of blacksludge in a glass container.

"We got most of it off of Peter's body with supersonic sound. That seems to be the only thing that weakened it."

"You didn't get all of it," MJ sighed. "There was a piece of it here."

"Yes," Susan said sadly. "I was afraid of that. We found a few holes in our radiation vestibule."

"Radia-Jesus, Tiger," MJ groaned, her head in her hands. "What exactly is this thing?"

Susan stowed the iPad back in her purse. "I'll try not to use too much of the technical mumbo-jumbo that Reed has in his notes. Sometimes I don't even know what he's talking about, and I went to Princeton mind you." Susan spoke the words with warmth that was undeniable. MJ knew where the blonde woman was coming from; sometimes Peter got so excited about a new development at Horizon that she herself wondered if he'd lapsed into another language.

For a moment Susan seemed to be deliberating how best to proceed. Then, leaning in closer, she began, "It's symbiotic, clearly, but that's only really on the surface. It does need a host to survive and it does benefit whatever living thing it attaches too...but it's also an autotroph."

MJ screwed up her face, thinking back to her high school Biology classes. "You mean it's a plant?"

"A plant; an insect; a squid...it has such a complex genetic make-up, and a highly unstable one at that." Susan's young face was edged with a severity that made her look somehow older. "It's autotrophic in that it produces its own food. But it needs a starting point from its host—something to tell it what to feed off of, and in turn produce."

MJ's frown told Susan that she'd gone a little too broad. "What does it feed off of, then?"

Susan stared MJ dead in the eyes. "Chemicals. Adrenaline; dopamine; serotonin…We even saw it progress to feeding off of the lab rat's testosterone levels. It's like a drug addict. And once it latches onto those patterns, it starts producing for itself and then returns what it makes to the host at an amplified rate."

MJ was silent for a long moment, staring at the coffee table. She'd been so disturbed by the sudden attack from whatever the alien thing was that she hadn't been able to think coherently since. But Susan Storm's words began to lay out the pieces of the puzzle in stark detail. And as Mary Jane thought back on all the changes that had taken over Peter—not just since the alien plant-bug-whatever had gotten its slimy mitts on him, but since after The Battle of the Bronx—all the pieces clicked into place.

He'd been hiding his disappointment and discontentment as good as she herself had hid her own. Only not well enough that she and a few others hadn't noticed. There were times when the self-loathing in Peter's puppy dog brown eyes had made her feel so helpless, so powerless. And times when the sudden change in his mood—the mask that he used to simply get up and face the day—frightened her.

And now this.

Brain chemicals.

Susan had said that the parasitic monster produced and fed on brain chemicals.

"It's eating his emotions," MJ said quietly, the revelation almost too horrible to comprehend in its truth.

Susan nodded. "Yes. And it releases a heightened version of those emotions back into him."

There was silence in the room except for the rain pelting against the windows. The noise of it sounded like a hail of bullets, ceaselessly driving into the weariest and most vulnerable part of Mary Jane's mind.

"You said it was sound that separated it from him, right?"

Again, Susan Storm nodded. "More like the vibrations from the sound."

MJ stood up abruptly, a determined fire growing in the pit of her gut. "I have to go," she said, and with that she was out the door, not giving a damn that it was dark and pouring buckets.

* * *

Peter felt the cold, hard floor of the alley against his face. Blinking rain and exhaustion out of his eyes, he righted himself. His initial disorientation was almost paralyzing—he'd been in the grips of a dreamless sleep for so long that he'd forgotten where he was and what had happened. He felt his skin crawl as the memories stole over him. And as he realized that he was lying in a filthy alley at night with rain pouring over him, alone and with nothing but a musty, old blanket covering him, he felt his wretchedness grow.

But he couldn't stay here. He had to get home. The symbiote had left him; had even saved his life from the fall and dragged him to safety.

He needed MJ. Needed to get to her and let her know that he was still alive and sound.

He struggled to his feet, letting the discarded blanket that had been covering him fall. His shirt had been torn to shreds during the fight against the symbiote, and the cold rain had soaked through the already sodden blanket.

 _Look like The Hulk_ , Peter thought blearily as he stumbled out of the alley. _Least my jeans aren't completely shredded, too.  
_  
The lights of the city were a blur through the cascade of rain. Every speeding car and slush of water made his brain throb painfully against his skull. It felt as if he'd been thrown into a rock tumbler and then spat back out again.

 _Home_ , he thought as the pavement cut into his bare feet. _Have to get home_.

Searing pain shot up his foot. He'd stepped on the remains of a shattered beer bottle behind a fast food place. Hissing, Peter fell to the rough, wet ground, clutching at his ankle.

He'd never felt so pathetic in all his life. So utterly, miserably alone. Well, except perhaps after Gwen's death. But even then he'd simply existed listlessly as a victim of cruel circumstance.

This?

This was all his doing. His fault for having so many foolish insecurities; for having wanted the power that the symbiote had granted him...

For not having opened up with the people who loved him.

 _No_. He gritted his teeth against the storm of self-pitying thoughts. _Not going to do this...I'm Spider-Man and...and I'm Peter-frigging-Parker..._

He got back up, enduring the pain in his foot as he walked through the storm.

He had a home; had people who loved him and a city that still needed him despite having the added firepower of The Avengers.

Captain George Stacy had been willing to make room for Spider-Man when he'd first tried to web out the police; Peter could contend with The Avengers playing in his backyard.

 _Home_ , he thought once more, and he thought it repeatedly, using it as a mantra to guide him through the night and the downpour and the pain. _Mary Jane...Eddie...Aunt May...Miles...Rio..._

He was crossing a vast and vacant parking lot, his head bowed against the rain. He felt a prickle in his blood, something separate from his spider-sense; something rooted in his very being.

Peter looked up.

The form walking through the rain was indistinct at first. But he could see her hair, red like the warmest fire. Peter's heart leapt, the beat of it rising as it stole his breath. His legs moved faster almost of their own volition. He could see her doing the same, both half-stumbling through the storm to the only other thing that could really shelter the other from its fury.

Her arms held him tight when they finally crashed together in the middle of the deserted, rain-washed lot. Peter clutched Mary Jane to him, feeling the skin of her hands against the bare skin of his chest; the weight—the very presence of her, here and tangible and safe—chased away whatever vestiges of despair that had been trying to grasp at him. He couldn't speak, couldn't think—couldn't do anything other than hold her like the beautiful perfection that she was.

She stared up at him, her face so awash with rain that Peter couldn't tell whether or not she, like him, was crying. He felt a supernova explode within his very being—of relief that they'd found each other, that she'd still gone looking for him after all he'd ever put her through; of clear understanding that she would be the one constant for him, and of a love so overwhelming that it almost hurt.

He needed her to heal the broken part of him, and knew that she needed the same. Their lips met, the kiss as ferocious and all consuming as the storm raging around them. It was imperfect, raw and hungry.

Peter heard himself saying her name over and over again, gasping it like a prayer between the scorching brush of her lips.

MJ looked into his eyes after they broke apart. "Next time an alien vegetable-beetle makes you go all crazy-town-banana-pants, please do your girlfriend the courtesy of letting her know."

Peter pressed his lips to her forehead. "Deal," he said, his voice coming out with a broken laugh.

"Come on, tiger. Let's get you home. We can get dry and talk it over."

That sounded like paradise to Peter.

Keeping her close by his side, they walked through the rain, away from the trauma and the pain and to the comfortable familiarity of home.

They found the house dark and empty. MJ didn't even bother reading a note that had been left on the coffee table; she didn't even let Peter read it, not that he had the energy to. They were both sopping wet, both weary to the bone. MJ led him by the hand to the bathroom; there, they peeled out of their wet clothes and stepped under the hot spray of the shower. Peter felt every last care he'd ever had spiral down the drain as he and MJ held each other, neither of them talking or doing anything besides letting the hot water ease the ache.

Even though it couldn't last forever, being so close with her—so warm and cleansed—rejuvenated Peter just enough. They stayed together until the hot water ran out. Then he and MJ helped towel each other off, slipped into their pyjamas and went to the kitchen table. Peter put on the Keurig and made them both two cups of hot tea.

For a moment, they simply sat across from one another, watching the curlicues of steam rise from their respective mugs.

But Peter had had his fill of silence, and of interruptions. Aunt May could walk through the kitchen door and he wouldn't think twice about webbing her mouth shut.

MJ's stormy green eyes met his.

 _Truth time_ , Peter thought, and the realization of it made him almost as terrified as if he were facing the symbiote's possessive wrath once more.

 **A/N: I'm sorry for the perspective flips in this chapter.**

 **And I'm sorry I keep finding excuses to get Peter wet and in varying states of undress.**

 **Also, the song that Dazzler sings isn't an original work—it's from the song "Peace Sign" by one of my favorite artists, Lights. If you can figure out the pun in that, you really are worthy of the title "True Believer."**


	10. Bonds

"I'm not happy, baby. I don't think I've been happy for a while now."

MJ stared into the steaming surface of her mug.

"With me?"

" _No_!" Peter said sharply. "God, no. Not you. Never you. MJ, you...you're my happiness. My faith. You're what keeps me going. The thing that makes all of this bearable, even when it's so damn chaotic. If you weren't still here…" It was a thought that had kept Peter up more than one sleepless night. "You bear everything in stride and that means so damn much to me. I don't even know how you can put up with it sometimes. I'm sure as hell not worth the effort."

MJ smiled ruefully into her mug of tea; Peter noticed the tension in her shoulders relax.

"I'm not happy with me." It seemed like such a pathetic thing to admit to. And yet there it was—the truth of the matter was so silly and simple compared to the devastation it had wrought in Peter's life.

Mary Jane was quick to spring to Peter's defense in most cases. Now, as his own worst enemy, circumstances weren't at all different, at least not from where MJ was concerned. "Peter, there's nothing wrong with you. I mean, like, other than the fact that you're a bit hide-it-all-away-ish at times. But everyone is like that. I'm sure Aunt May's probably got a couple skeletons in her closet."

"And they'd probably have started twerking to the _Danse Macabre_ if she'd had anymore of that margarita." They both laughed at the image. The rain on the roof was making a staccato lullaby, relaxing the whole dark house. Soft amber light from the ceiling fan above their little table gave MJ's hair a gold glint; it softened her already smooth, gorgeous face.

Peter took a deep breath. "I hate that I hide anything from you. I hate that I keep putting you in danger-

"This is only the first time since Christmas," MJ said softly. "I mean, if it was every other week then maybe we'd have something to talk about."

"I know, but I hate it all the same." He took a gulp of hot tea, the orangey zest of it instantly chasing away whatever cold had remained. "MJ, you're the best damn thing that's ever happened to me. I know I don't say that as much as I should."

"Well, you're pretty damn good at showing it." MJ's face had turned pink; her eyes were bright, and she was gripping her mug tightly in both hands.

"Sometimes I don't feel like I am. 'Specially not the last few days. That thing—that alien...it did things to me, baby."

"I know." She met his eyes, a tiny smile on her face. "That little memo on the table was from Susan Storm. She gave me the juice on the...what exactly do you call that thing anyway?"

"Symbiote," Peter sighed. Feeling relaxed at not having to go into all the gory when's, why's and what's about the suit was a luxury he felt he didn't deserve. "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you when it was happening."

"Not like it was entirely your fault," MJ said with a snort. "My little drama show kept elbowing it out of the way."

"Still. Not like I was locking lips with a mousetrap or anything."

"That would make a great splash page for _The Bugle_."

Peter chuckled, then sighed. His exhaustion felt like a palpable thing, pulling at his eyelids and gnawing at his muscles. But he wouldn't let it get the best of him. Not when he had so many things he had to say.

But MJ cut him off at the pass.

"It feeds off of emotions, tiger. Susan dropped by to tell you that that's what she was able to hammer out. It eats what you feel and the pumps it back into you, only way more hardcore."

That certainly explained a lot, and it was enough to keep Peter in contemplative silence for several moments. The rage he'd felt at even the basest criminal; the carelessness with the people in his life...it all made perfect sense to him, now that he knew how the symbiote operated.

"Explains why it was fighting against me as hard as it did," Peter said after what seemed a too-long stretch of silence. "It was trying to help me but I wasn't exactly helping it."

"Helping it? That doesn't make any sense."

Peter closed his eyes, stealing himself to say what he needed to say—to tell her the truth no matter how wretched it made either of them feel.

"It makes sense because it's hard to help something that wants to destroy itself. Not like that," Peter added, for MJ's eyes had widened. "I'm not, like, hurting myself or anything, MJ. It's just that...I don't exactly like myself all that much."

"Why?" Her voice was so light, so understanding. Not for the first time in his life Peter thanked his lucky stars that she was willing to put up with his life—with all the dangers and difficulties that what he did put her through.

"Why not? All the people I couldn't protect-" like Uncle Ben and George and Gwen Stacy "-everything that I can't stop-" like getting to Eddie fast enough last Christmas, and trying to save Doctor Octavius from himself. "And then there's just the way I get sometimes."

MJ frowned. "You're down on yourself for being intelligent, kindhearted and stupidly brave?"

"You're making me blush, baby" Peter said. But then the months long cloud stole over him once more. "It's just that there's things I've done—ways that I've acted..." He tasted a familiar, bitter resentment. "I'm so damn angry all the time, MJ. At my parents, at all the people I have to beat into the dust...it's like it's the most driving thing in my crawling up the walls-ing." His voice choked but he plowed on with steadfast stupidity of an inexperienced knight of yore. "I made things so damn hard for Aunt May and Uncle Ben when I got that bug bite. I let a good friend turn into something so twisted because I was selfish, and I lost someone again because of it. And it's now I feel like I'm doing it again to Eddie. He needs my help and I'm-" Peter stopped as he felt warm tears sliding down his cheeks.

"Oh shit," he murmured, hastily trying to wipe his eyes on the backs of his hands. It wasn't as if he hadn't cried in front of MJ less than half an hour before in the parking lot. But the rain had obscured the worst of it, and Peter felt compelled by sheer, masculine norms to put on a brave face in front of his girl.

But his girl wasn't one to simply sit back and let centuries of meaningless, toxic dictum stop her from being her extraordinary self. MJ was at his side in a second, her arms around his head. Peter allowed himself to collapse for just a moment, allowed himself to bury his face in the warm security of Mary Jane's embrace.

He felt lost, like a child frightened running blindly through the night. And with the gentle touch of her hand, and the warm nearness of her body, Mary Jane brought him back-helped him find his way to her once again.

When, at last, he was able to calm down, he stared into ocean green eyes. "Damn. Who left that bowl of onions out, huh?" He had to make a joke—had to laugh off his shame.

"Don't worry, tiger. It was the manliest fall-to that I've ever seen pieces do." She sighed, smoothing his mousey hair. "And all of that—all that anger and the darkness that your little cannibal fashion accessory chowed down on? It's not you, Peter."

"It is, though," Peter whispered. "I mean, it comes from somewhere true." He had hated his parents for abandoning him—for keeping their secrets so guarded. Had hated his duty as Spider-Man and everything it had taken from him. Hated The Avengers for making him feel all the more useless, and even Eddie at times, for being such a perpetual reminder of Peter's failure. It was an ugly anger, one that stole upon him like an intruder in the night. And when the symbiote had gotten ahold of it...well, Peter was honestly surprised he hadn't gone a step further and flung the unfortunate father into the river the previous day.

But again, MJ refused to let him dig the blade deeper into his own skin. "It _is_ a _part_ of you," she said thoughtfully. Her arms slid away from him and she strode to the window, staring at the rivulets of rain.

"There's more to us than what we are," MJ went on. "More than just what we want people to think, anyway. You have the luxury of wearing a literal mask, tiger. But most people? We face each and every day putting something on to cover the parts we don't find so pretty, or the parts we're afraid that'll look weak." Mary Jane laughed hollowly. "Just look at me." She shook her head. "Party girl was my favorite face to wear. And now...well, there's a reason I became an actress."

Peter felt cold, and not just because he no longer had the warmth of her body to shield him. He stood up, not sure if he should hold her or not. She suddenly looked just as lost as he had been only moments before, and Peter was stunned silent by the obvious realization that perhaps neither of them had this figured out.

MJ faced him after a moment of excruciating silence. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that you're not the only one. And whatever you might think about all the unpretty pieces you've got...well, they're just that. Pieces. A shadow of who you really are. And no matter what you think about yourself or the various parts of you, I love you, and you are _definitely_ damn deserving of me. You've saved me from more that just street thugs and a whacked out scientist with a tentacle fetish." She smiled at him, even as her eyes welled with tears. "It's amazing to me. The Drew Barrymore of Central High being loved by someone so put together—so selfless and kind...tiger, you've healed scars that I used to think I'd been born with. So no matter what you think about yourself, just remember that I love you. And so does Eddie."

Before Peter even had a chance to process everything that she'd told him, MJ took a deep breath and said, "My turn now."

"What are you talking about, MJ?"

"Quid pro quo, remember? That was a few months ago, but it should still stand."

"Don't you get enough newsy stuff with all the media crap that being on Broadway is throwing at you?"

Mary Jane laughed, the sound was bitter enough to cut Peter to the quick. "Good thing I won't have to do that for much longer," she said.

Peter felt his blood freeze. " _What_?"

MJ looked at a spot over Peter's shoulder. She tried to keep her voice light, but the effort seemed to wear her down. By the time she finished speaking, she was almost incomprehensible with tears. "I'm out of _Les Mis_. The producers think I'm too much a liability."

It was Peter's turn to be the rock—to be the arms that held Mary Jane together as she fell apart. He heard himself say, "Is it because of me?" even though making her tragedy about him seemed so callous and wrong.

She stared into his eyes, stricken. Peter knew the answer, and it made him feel poisonous-unworthy of being in the same room as her, let alone holding her so close.

"It was that page in _The Bugle_ ," MJ said between her gasping sobs. "From Christmas."

Peter remembered. Eddie had snapped a photo of Mary Jane and Spider-Man standing among the wreckage of Manhattan Mall's giant Christmas tree following Peter's first confrontation with Otto Octavius's spider-slayers. The image hadn't done much to damage MJ's reputation—in fact, it had almost done it more good than harm.

But what with Spider-Man suddenly going borderline homicidal, Peter knew that having one of their stars associated with a local menace to society was too great of a risk for the producers to take.

He couldn't say sorry because sorry wouldn't cut it. And as MJ looked into Peter's eyes, Peter knew that she knew it all too well-that the pain and guilt she knew he felt sufficed as penance.

"What happens now?" Peter kissed the top of Mary Jane's head.

MJ shivered. "I'm contracted for the first six weeks. After that, I'm out and probably replaced."

"Baby, I...I wish I could do something." But how could he? This was something he'd ripped apart with his own insecurity, and he hadn't even seen it. "I can try and talk some sense into them. Maybe get Eddie to twist JJ's arm..."

They were silent for a moment, both too consumed by the miserable weight of the shadow in their lives.

Then MJ begin to giggle.

Peter started.

Mary Jane had her face pressed into his chest, her whole body shaking with laughter.

And then Peter began to laugh too, caught by the infectious sound and feeling. Neither of them could help but appreciate just how ridiculously low they'd managed to fall. It bypassed depressing now, shooting the moon to sheer tragically comedic. Peter half expected a court jester to waltz into their little kitchen and fire off a dramatic soliloquy.

Mary Jane's knees gave out as she continued to bust a gut, and she sank to the floor, pulling Peter with her.

"Goddamn it," Peter hiccupped. "This is _so_ not funny."

MJ lolled her head onto his shoulder. A new kind of tear was falling down Peter's face—he'd laughed himself into crying.

"Hey, tiger," MJ said, after finding the breath to speak.

"What's up, kid?"

"What say we stop trying to sacrifice so much for each other and give this _building_ _a life_ thing a fair shot?"

"Aw gee, I don't know. You think the Baby Boomers are really onto something with that?"

"Older and wiser or what have you." MJ threaded her arm through his, and for a long while they sat together on the kitchen floor, listening to the rain. Then Peter helped MJ to her feet, dumped their tepid teas out and turned the lights off.

They slept with the rain pelting against the sides of the house and their bodies entwined. And when the gray light of day stole through the windows, Peter slipped out of bed long enough to grab some snacks from the pantry before stealing back to their bedroom. It had been too long since they'd been able to be together in simple peace and quiet—to stay lolling around in bed and binge watching the latest cheese-fest on Netflix.

Too long since they could fool around like stupid kids and just be young and reckless and in love.

Neither of them answered their phones whenever they rang. The day turned over to an even murkier evening, the threat of rain tangible through the plastic wrap that MJ had taped up around the window. But still they didn't leave their bed for anything other than to use the bathroom or get more food. And when day turned to night, sleep took them both swiftly and deeply.

Monday morning dawned, far warmer than it had been the previous several days. Peter rolled out of the most relaxing slumber he'd ever had, only to find that MJ was already getting out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her body.

"I hate Mondays," Peter said with a stretch and a yawn.

MJ snorted. "Is that your way of telling me that you want lasagna for dinner?"

"I do love me some frozen Italian dinners." Peter glanced at his clock. "I suppose it's no good to say that I don't wanna go to work today?"

"Sure, but then what kind of big, strong, providing manly man would you be?"

"Don't wanna be a provider. I wanna stay home and bake cookies with you."

Mary Jane smiled at him. "Don't worry, tiger. You'll be fine."

Thinking back to the disastrous last day at Horizon Labs, Peter did not remotely think that he would, in fact, be fine.

Sensing his dread, MJ finished shimmying into her jeans, grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him out of the puddle of blankets. "At the risk of raining on your parade, we might have to take a check on the lasagna."

Peter tried not to pout. "Why?"

"Because you did wonders at apologizing to me the other night," MJ said with a genuine smile. "But I thought that maybe you could hit Eddie up with the sorry's. I know he's got a few he'd like to throw your way."

That was bolstering enough. Peter showered while MJ made breakfast, and they sat around with the TV on, and talking about nothing. It was a blessed return to normalcy, and Peter made damn sure to savor every last sip of coffee and bit of his Pop Tarts. And when it came time for MJ to leave, Peter kissed her like it was the first time.

"Are you going to be okay?" His eyes shifted guiltily as they stood together in the door frame. He still felt heinous for being the reason she'd lost her dream.

MJ smirked and chucked him under the chin. " 'Course I'm going to be okay. And if you keep up with the guilt trip, you're going to find yourself sleeping alone for the rest of your days."

"But—

"Peter, that thing was what made you go off the rails. I know you wouldn't have done anything otherwise. Besides, it's not your fault that my producers are a bunch of fiscally conservative _yenta's_."

Peter quirked an eyebrow. "Yiddish, MJ?"

"I picked it up in Brooklyn."

"Well, you should put it back."

"Get to work!" MJ gave him a playful swat, and Peter watched her go until she was out of sight. Then, knowing that he couldn't afford to delay the inevitable, he headed back inside to get ready for the day.

Before putting on his day clothes, he stopped over his old red-and-blues. The suit needed to be darned, and there was a funky smell coming from it that made Peter think of his old high school locker room. The lenses of the eyes stared up at him; the creases in the mask almost look like an I-told-you-so smirk.

Peter sighed. "Guess there's something to be said for never trading in a classic, huh?"

Forty-minutes later he was at Horizon Labs, drowned in the frat-style Alpine scent of Ax Body Spray. The smell of his costume was too ripe to be ignored, and Peter made a mental note to hit up the Laund-o-Rama near his and Eddie's old apartment that evening.

Horizon was a famously busy place, so very few people gave Peter any kind of berth. Granted, they likely hadn't forgotten about his stunt the previous week, but most had better things to do.

Being several minutes early, Peter headed to the Starbucks on the ground floor—an addition that had chagrined Tony Stark something fierce during construction. As he waited for his usual grande, he caught sight of Darcy Lewis's bespectacled face, staring daggers at him from near the electric fireplace as she munched menacingly on a maple Danish.

Mary Jane was right—he had to try and do as much damage control as he possibly could.

Peter hurried across the café; Darcy glowered at his approach; she threw her book bag on the seat opposite, but otherwise did not move.

"Hey," Peter said once he was level with her. In response, Darcy took savage chunk out of her pastry. "Look, Darce…I'm sorry. I acted like a supreme dick the other day. Like, Henry Bowers levels of douchebaggery." He hoped that the allusion to one of her favorite books would score him some brownie points. It did, insofar as getting her to stop ripping her defenseless breakfast Danish to shreds.

"Please," Peter said, looking Darcy in the eye. "I wanna make it up to you."

Darcy narrowed her gaze. "You really should make it up to Carlie, you know."

"I will. Haven't seen her yet, but I'll run into her before long."

Darcy observed Peter like he was a spider slowly crawling up the side of her bed—one that she seemed to be debating the worth of squishing or not. After a tense moment, she said, "You know that French movie where the middle aged woman takes that young marquis as her sex slave?"

Peter felt his stomach churn, but he held his ground. "Y-yeah?"

Darcy kept him hanging for just a moment, in which Peter could vividly picture a future of degradation and servitude.

Then she returned to her Danish. "I'm having a bitch of a time getting the English language version of it through my proxy Netflix server. You're going to fix it for me, capiche?"

Peter let out a sigh of relief. "Oh thank God. Uh, I mean yeah. I'll get right on it."

"Tremendous," Darcy said. "And Pete? Don't beat yourself up too much over Crazy Carlie, alright? It's not like most of us haven't at least thought about telling her what's what."

"Right."

But Peter wasn't going to let himself off the hook that easily. Now that he'd laid his bones bare with MJ and smoothed things over with Darcy, he felt a great lightening of the spirit, as if someone had relieved him of a great weight. Of course he could mend the fence with Carlie Cooper—although the fence would definitely stay high and secure. He felt bad for having taken such a potshot at her—she'd still chosen to marry an insane serial killer, one who'd hurt Peter's best friend grievously.

He didn't bump into her all that morning. He was too preoccupied trying to stay downwind of his team, most of whom despised Ax Body Spray on principle—something Peter honestly couldn't blame them for.

Nor did he encounter Carlie in the cafeteria at lunch. Peter wondered—and also feared—that he might have pushed her a little too far the other day. Darcy, once more on speaking terms with him, tried to talk him down while expounding upon what she thought had got into Spider-Man lately. But still, Peter couldn't help but worry as he went through the rest of his day.

As he was leaving the building, he felt his spider-sense go off. It was almost a welcome thing now, and he knew who it was that he'd encounter once he turned the corner. He put on his game face, ready to beg for forgiveness if necessary.

"Carlie!"

She froze, but did not turn around, her shoulders hunched as if afraid the sound of his voice would injure her somehow.

Peter sighed. It wasn't even remotely close to saying sorry to MJ, but it still involved a lot of pride-swallowing.

"I'm sorry for what I said to you last week. There was no excuse for it." Crisp, professional, but sincere. Peter wasn't about to extol the virtues of Carlie's beloved Cletus just to sleep better at night, after all.

For a second he thought she would walk on. But then she spun on her heel with an easy agility that reminded Peter of a lashing asp. Carlie's face looked like it had been shorn out of ice. And those eyes—she wasn't angry. She was simply regarding him as if he were nothing more than a piece of trash stuck to her shoe.

"Is that a new cologne?" Carlie said sharply. "It smells _wonderful_ on you." With that, she walked away.

In spite of himself, Peter couldn't help but feel supremely annoyed at Carlie's cold behavior. But there was nothing to be done. The ball was in her court now, and she'd decided not to serve it back. Besides, it wasn't as though he didn't deserve the frosty treatment.

Peter stepped outside into the sudden, damp warmth that had enveloped Manhattan after the previous night's rainstorm. Grimacing at the unpleasant, sticky feeling, he hurried to a nearby alley and, taking a deep breath, stripped out of his day clothes and threw his mask on.

Terrifying as the symbiote had been, Peter couldn't deny that the quick-change act it had afforded him hadn't been a boon. For a moment, he looked at himself in the surface of a deep puddle. It had only been a few days since he'd left his red and blues behind. Yet it seemed as though he were staring into the eyes of an old friend, one that he'd neglected.

 _Okay_ , he thought as he launched himself into the air and began to zip around the streets. _Just like riding a bicycle. A bicycle without endless webbing, speed, strength and a nifty costume cue, but a bicycle nonetheless._

It came as a surprise to even himself that he didn't seek out the stares of the crowds below. He'd so long clung to his bitter resentment against being ignored by the city he protected that being free of it was almost palpable. But without the symbiote siphoning off of his emotional state, he didn't give a damn about The Avengers, or carjackers, or even jaywalkers for the time being. He was free, feeling almost as on top of the world as he had when he'd first come into his gifts.

He swung towards Chelsea, and landed on the roof of his old apartment building. Once there, he covered his costume with his day clothes and hurried into the shelter of the upstairs hallway. Peter wrinkled his nose; his swing through the muggy afternoon had left a layer of sweat on his skin, and it didn't at all help the funky smell coming from his costume.

His heart was beating a mile a minute. Apologizing to Mary Jane was one thing, but there was more guilt when it came to Eddie than just having not told him about all the changes the symbiote had wrought on him.

Eddie didn't answer the door after Peter knocked three times. Worried, Peter fished in his pocket for the spare key he'd been given for emergency purposes. It was the opening night of _Les Mis_ all over again, only this time the apartment was dark, silent and disarray. Eddie was watching TV with the volume up, clutching a throw pillow to his chest.

Peter saw an open case of beer and two empty bottles on the coffee table. He should have been annoyed to find his best friend in such a typical state, only he couldn't find it in him for two very good reasons. Firstly, because he had a thorough understanding of the temptation of a vice. Granted, Peter's had been in the form of a parasitic, extra-terrestrial entity, but he still understood Eddie's behavior in recent months.

But the real reason he didn't get angry was because of what it was that Eddie was watching and, more importantly, his reaction to it.

"How many times have you seen _Beauty and the Beast_ by now, dude?"

Eddie didn't show the slightest bit of surprise; obviously he'd heard Peter sneak in. "Shove it," Eddie said thickly. He wiped at his streaming eyes and sniffled a little. "It's the most beautiful film on the goddamn planet, and you know it."

"Can't argue with you there." Peter flopped onto the seat next to Eddie. He eyes the case of beer, feeling suddenly quite parched. "Mind if I partake?"

"Only if you like it warm," Eddie said, his eyes still fixed on the tale as old as time playing on his and Peter's old big screen.

Peter grabbed a bottle, popped the cap and took a swig. He found himself suddenly missing the familiarity of his days living with Eddie. They'd been roommates for over a year, and the transition between losing Gwen and trying to pick up the pieces had been smoothed along by Eddie's friendship.

For a moment, they both watched the movie in silence. Eddie sighed after the credits came up, wiped his eyes and said, "I'm not going to apologize for this." He nodded at the beers. "In my defense, I didn't crack them open until _Be Our Guest_."

"From what I recall, you used to reach for the Grey Goose by the time Belle got hauled into the dungeon."

Eddie grinned a little. Then he got to his feet, grabbed his cane and thumped across the floor. "What brings you round, Pete?"

"Just wanted to clear the air." Peter took another swig of lukewarm beer. "I haven't exactly been gunning for person of the year lately."

"Yeah well, I hate to break it to you but I kinda beat you to the punch." Eddie returned with a glass filled with ice, which he held out to Peter. He screwed his face up and added, "Phew. What I _don't_ hate to break to you is that you reek, man. King of the funk, and this is coming from someone who lived in a frat house for four years."

Peter chuckled. "Yeah, I kinda let the laundry fall by the wayside because of things."

"Well, mosey outta your underoos. I'll throw 'em in with my load. Unless of course you've gotta beat it right away."

"No beating," Peter said. He slipped his shirt over his head. "Woah. That is pretty manky." He shimmied his jeans off next. "What gives with the trip to Disneyland anyway? Not that I'm one to judge."

Eddie shrugged as Peter stripped out of his Spider-Man getup. "Just needed something to escape in." Peter handed Eddie his colors. "Might wanna take a shower while you're at it," Eddie added. "You know the way, yeah?"

"Ah gee. I don't know. The topography here has changed so much."

Eddie smirked, flipped Peter off, and marched away.

Being in the apartment that had housed him during the dark days after Gwen's death truly was, as the song issuing from the Blu-Ray player said, bittersweet and strange. A part of him truly missed it—the friendship and the comfort. He showered, scrubbing the dirt and the sweat of the day away.

Eddie still wasn't back from the apartment's laundry room when Peter stepped out of the bathroom, freshly showered. He paused on his way to the living room. The bedroom that had once been his had been turned over into an office. The big screen of Eddie's iMac displayed an in-progress document, and the splash page photo drew Peter's already piqued curiosity.

The photo had been taken off of someone's cell phone; it depicted Peter in the symbiote suit, tearing through the roof of the runaway Oldsmobile. And the going headline read "SPIDEY IMPOSTOR CAUSES QUEENSBORO MAYHEM!"

Peter's spider-sense twanged, and he turned to see Eddie watching him from the hallway.

"Uh-" Peter didn't know what to say. Certainly Eddie's expression was unreadable. Clearing the lump from his throat he said, "I take it JJ isn't aiming for the jugular anymore?"

Eddie shook his head and stumped across the floor. "I wouldn't let him. Had him on Skype for about three hours feeding him a real kicker about how some wannabe webhead tried to kill a guy the other day. Couldn't believe he actually bought it. I think me mentioning how he'd be missing the Giants game if I kept him up any longer had something to do with it."

A little over six months beforehand, Eddie had thought nothing of turning over the photograph he'd taken of Mary Jane and Spider-Man in the Manhattan Mall. He'd been conned into making the piece front-page news by J. Jonah Jameson and had instantly regretted it.

Seeing the lengths that Eddie was willing to go to just to keep Spider-Man's name out of he perpetual mud that Jameson wanted to keep it in filled Peter with a tidal wave of affection for his best friend.

"Thanks, Eddie." Peter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "And I'm-

"I know."

Eddie smiled a little. It was a testament to how long it had been since Peter had seen his best friend smile that the gesture took his breath away for a moment. All the care that had hardened Eddie's face in the last six months vanished; his grey eyes were alight with their usual mirth and zest for life.

But then it was gone just as fast as it had flickered. "Christ it's stuffy in here," Eddie said. He thumped down the hallway; Peter followed him past the TV and out onto the balcony overlooking the street below. Peter stopped on the way to collect his beer and Eddie's. He handed Eddie his bottle, and Eddie gave him a grin of thanks.

The smell of New York City wafted up from the streets below. Baking pavement, vehicle exhaust and the brine of the river created a distinct aroma of home. A light zephyr lifted Eddie's fair hair as he stared almost forlornly out over the street that had been his home long before it had been Peter's.

"It's not just for being a monster asshole over the last little bit," Peter said, staring determinedly at the brick of the apartment building. "It's for everything. I know you're not big on chick flick moments; I know dudes are supposed to just grunt like cavemen whenever we wanna express emotional shit. But Eddie...you're my best friend and I let you get hurt so damn bad last Christmas. If I'd been there faster, you wouldn't be walking around like Captain Ahab. And I'm sorry for that, man. I'm sorry I wasn't there to stop him..."

"Ah geez," Eddie sighed. He sucked back the rest of his beer like it was tap water. "What do you take me for, huh tiger?"

Eddie's use of MJ's pet name stunned Peter. Eddie had the empty beer bottle clutched loosely in the one hand not supporting his weight on the balcony railing. He looked as if he wanted to be anywhere other than this vulnerable place. But Eddie Brock had never been one to run for cover in any situation.

"I mean yeah," he went on, "for the first little bit I was...it was just devastating, Pete. And it hurt a lot more because I _didn't_ want to be mad at you."

"You're... _not_ mad at me?"

Eddie laughed, a noise filled with such abandon that Peter was momentarily scared that Eddie would climb over the side of the balcony and fall to his death.

"No, you big emo, I'm not mad at you. You weren't the one who stuck me like a pig and left me to bleed. You were distracted by our tentacled doctor, in case you're memory is failing."

Peter stared at his socked feet. "It still eats me alive, though."

" 'Course it does. That's why you're the hero, hero."

Peter glanced at the empty beer bottle still clutched in Eddie's hand. "If it's not me, then what is wrong, Eddie? I know I can't do much, but I wanna help."

Eddie was silent for a very long time. A siren sounded from somewhere down the street, but Peter didn't care. He could see something in Eddie begin to crack; once again the haunted look in his eyes shifted to something so pained and vulnerable that it broke Peter's heart. He remembered what MJ had said about masks and shadows.

Was this Eddie's mask breaking down in front of him?

"I can't sleep, Peter." Eddie sounded so broken—so diminished. "And being cooped up here along doesn't help, eitehr. It's so hard. Every time I close my eyes—every time I let my guard down I can...I can feel _him_. Feel him on top of me. Feel him breathing in my face as he sticks that knife into my guts over and over again..." Eddie's voice broke. He clutched at his stomach, pain etched onto ever inch of his face.

Peter set his beer bottle on the ground, closed the distance between the two of them and pulled Eddie into a tight hug. He was surprised that Eddie didn't squirm away or shove him back. "I'm sorry," Peter whispered, even though it seemed so trivial. What could his apology do to drive away the ceaseless torment that Eddie faced?

Eddie sighed after a moment, and gave Peter a quick pat on the back. "Ah, Pete. So much for the stoic Eddie Brock you've come to know and love, huh?"

"Whatever." They broke apart, neither of them looking at each other directly. They'd broken almost every primary rule of the Bro Code; Peter felt heat prickling his face, but found that he didn't particularly care.

"Thank you," Eddie said quietly. "And, y'know...for what it's worth, I'm sorry too. And I get it. How it must have felt for you in that...thing." Eddie frowned. "What exactly was it anyway?"

Peter explained the symbiote as best he could.

"Jesus," Eddie whistled. "Hate to see what it would do to me."

"Well fingers crossed it's taken off for a warmer climate."

"What are you going to do now?"

Peter shrugged. "Probably take a bit of a breather. Not like The Avengers and the NYPD can't handle most of what's going on here. Besides, MJ needs me now that _Les Mis_ has gone belly up and...and I kinda think you need me too."

Eddie rolled his eyes but grinned nonetheless. He wiped at his eyes; Peter decided to give him the benefit of the doubt that he simply had dust in his eyes and nothing more. "Thanks, man," Eddie said again.

"Anytime, Eddie."

The moment broke. Both of them went back inside, Peter making sure to grab his beer on the way in. Whatever tension had existed between himself and Eddie had skirted away, like a dark cloud over the sun.

Peter's phone went off. It was MJ.

"Hey superstar," he said.

MJ laughed. "Not for very much longer."

"Well you'll always be mine. What's up?"

"The matinee's over and I've got the night off. You at Eddie's?"

"Nowhere else."

Eddie stuck his tongue at as he shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversation. "Tell her that we're eating frogurt and watching _Vanderpump Rules_."

"I heard that," MJ said with a laugh. "And frogurt sounds perfect, although it's crap without a bunch of sugary goodies on top. I'll stop by and grab some on my way over, and unless of course you two boys are afraid of my feminine charms cramping your style?"

He'd been so terrified of driving them away. And yet, in the end, it seemed as if he'd managed to web them closer—to know them both and feel closer to them both. They were still here after everything he'd put them through.

"Actually," Peter said, grinning like an idiot, "why don't you sit tight and let your friendly neighborhood do-gooder take you for a swing to get some munchies?"

MJ laughed. "I'll be here with bells on."

Peter hung up. Eddie, leaning on his cane at the island in the kitchen, said lightly, "Going to cut and run, then?"

"Not a chance. How long do my colors have before the laundry's done?"

Eddie blinked. "Probably another twenty minutes. Why?"

"Wanna go for a swing?"

Thirty five minutes later, a quick observer would have noticed Spider-Man zooming over Broadway with two people either side of him. They might, upon squinting, see an M2M bag clutched in the hand of the gorgeous red head with her arms wrapped around the hero's neck.

But they wouldn't see the dazzling smile on Mary Jane Watson's face. They wouldn't hear the carefree laughter of Eddie Brock—pressed against Spider-Man's side with his arms securely around web-slinger's chest—or appreciate the fact that laughter was a sound he hadn't made in sobriety since the previous winter. And nobody, not even the two people Spider-Man carried through the city, saw the sheer happiness on the face if the man under the mask.

He didn't need to be a hero to New York City. Not when he could be to the two most important people in his life.

 **A/N: I'm sorry if the ending of this chapter gives anyone cavities. If it's any consolation, everything that happens hereon out is going to be quite grim.**

 **I'm curious to know if these dense chapter lengths are too long for anyone.  
**


	11. Escape

" _I'm on the top of the world, looking down on creation, and the only explanation I can find_ …" It was a testament to the elated mood that Spider-Man had been in for the last several days that he found himself singing along to one of Aunt May's favorite songs—and conversely one of his least favorite songs—while swinging high above Wall Street.

It couldn't be helped. It had been a solid week since his encounter with the symbiote, and his life had, for the most part, gone back to something like normal. Granted, MJ was still slaving away at a Broadway show that she no longer had a solid role in, and the police had been slightly more wary of their friendly neighborhood web-slinger since the incident on the Queensboro Bridge. But in the same breath, Mary Jane also seemed to be somewhat relieved that wasn't tied down to Les Mis anymore; thanks to the false information Eddie had fed The Daily Bugle, most people believed that the black-suited Spider-Man had been a murderous impostor, and Peter's relationship with his co-workers had smoothed over, Carlie Cooper being the possible exception. Although Peter honestly didn't lose any sleep over the squeaky-voiced trainwreck's habit of avoiding him in the halls now.

He launched a line to a gargoyle outcropping, swung high and let himself fall in a full three-sixty somersault before coming to land on the ledge of one of the many economic buildings on West 40th. Like clockwork, his phone vibrated against his skin, and he fished it out of the pocket lining of his costume.

"This is Up Late with Spider-Man, what are your musical dedications and requests for the night?"

MJ snorted on the other end of the line. "God, tiger, you are a laugh riot."

"I'm also great and mending my own socks. What's up, baby?"

"The opposite of down."

"Geez, we're quite the comedic couple, huh? A regular Ricky and Lucy."

"Hm, stand-up comedy. Might be a great fallback career. Hey, did you hear the one about the only thing Spider-Man _can'_ t do that a spider can?"

The hero in question narrowed his eyes behind his mask. "I think I missed that one, but I'm guessing the answer has something to do with his girlfriend likely having to pay the rent solo for a little while."

"Ooh, burn," MJ said with a heavy, frat boy affectation. "Oh, let me get some burn ointment for that solar burn." She sobered up, however, and added, "You'll be good getting dinner ready for yourself tonight?"

"I don't know. _Swanson's Hungry Man_ dinners are so complicated, what with the pre-heating and the oven and the _oy_."

"Remember that conversation we had a few days ago about putting the Yiddish back where we found it?"

"Yeah, yeah." Spider-Man took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the late afternoon heat. The mercury had been steadily increasing since the big rainstorm; he'd been running his suit through the laundry every other night on patrol. "Don't worry, baby. I'll make do. Besides, with you out of the house I can finally watch the _New Westminster Dog Show_ without feeling like I'm emasculating myself."

"Heaven forbid that ever happen," MJ said teasingly. "Love you, tiger."

"Love you too." He hung up.

It had been a quiet few days. Patrolling the streets had been a perfect release for him after so long feeling trapped by his own skin. Things in the Big Apple had been quiet for the most part. The Avengers were busier than ever, and even when they weren't, there were places like Hell's Kitchen where rumors had persisted of a new masked vigilante. In truth, Spider-Man was grateful for the reprieve that the extra help was giving him.

He went into a free fall off the ledge of the office building, savoring the rush of adrenaline. Then he fired a web, pulled himself out of his dive, and had just decided to head for home along the stretch of FDR Drive, when the violent blare of his spider-senses made him pull up hard.

 _So much for the reconstituted chicken cutlets_ , he thought. He peered down at the street below, the sounds of screaming and squealing tires filling his ears even from his great height and distance. And as he went into a fast swing, he saw what it was that was causing the commotion: a heavily armored transport van was careening down the Brooklyn Bridge, swerving to keep on course. Spider-Man swung onto the top spokes of the bridge, and felt his heart sink when he was the block letters printed on the side of the iron-grey vehicle: _Ravencroft Prison_.

"Mama always said," Spider-Man mused to himself as he swung towards the truck, "that nothing good ever came from a maximum security prison." Despite his glib attitude, he knew even before he landed on the front hood of the truck that things were far worse than they appeared. Sure enough, the inside of the front windshield was splattered with blood, and he was quite certain that the three tough looking men now operating the careening vehicle weren't up to the standard set by Ravencroft's transportation department.

That, and they were all wearing the standard jumpsuits of the prison's inmates.

"Hi!" Spider-Man waved at the driver and his two cronies. "I'm gonna ask you fellas real nicely to pull over to the shoulder and surrender."

In response, the truck jerked violently to one side. Spider-Man, adhered to the steel surface of the hood, sighed.

"Fine. Do it the hard way." He crawled towards the windshield; the thug sitting passenger side pulled out a gun—from where, Spider-Man really didn't want to think, although he did catch sight of the prone and bloodied form of another body slumped against the side of the front bench.

An argument broke out between the thugs. Spider-Man knew that the windshield was bulletproof, and that firing through it would likely result in an even messier surprise for the three goons. One of them turned back and shouted something through the grate in the wall. Over the howling of the sirens, rush of wind and the screams of the terrified pedestrians, Spider-Man could just hear what the thug was saying: "BECK! YOU GOT ANY MORE TRICKS?"

Spider-Man cocked his head to the side. "Beck? Hm. Funny you should mention that. Did you guys know that in the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey?" And with that, he dug his fingers through the industrial grade steel shell of the hood, and violently jerked the speeding truck to the side. The right passenger skidded against the girders of the bridge, sending sparks through the air.

The driver let go of the steering wheel in sheer shock.

"Shit," Spider-Man hissed. He attempted to keep the truck on course, hoping to avoid the many, many people and cars attempting to speed away from the wayward vehicle. There was a bus behind him, one that he could see quite clearly was empty. Gritting his teeth, the web-slinger shot a line to the back of it. Through sheer inertia he steered the armored truck across the length of the lane. With a resounding crash, it collided with the edge of the divider.

Spider-Man felt his teeth clack together, but he'd luckily gotten the worst of the situation under control. He smiled through his mask at the stunned stupid expressions of the three murdering hijackers. Sirens blared close-by. The NYPD would be on the truck in no time.

Smirking, Spider-Man hopped off the front of the truck, webbed the doors shut for good measure, and swaggered towards the back. He could already hear the inmates due for transport yelling and banging around the inside of the trailer, but they wouldn't be going anywhere.

The double doors at the back burst open. Spider-Man rolled his eyes. These crooks were setting themselves up to be reigned in by the cops. He was fully prepared to give them a stern talking-to when a violent cloud of purple smoke erupted on the street behind the armored truck.

A flash of familiarity crossed the wall-crawler's memory; he narrowed his eyes as he crept through the sudden fog. He could see shapes in it, and beyond the shapes, the cavalcade of flashing red, blue and white lights of at least a dozen police cars and cruisers.

Before the smoke cleared, Spider-Man saw what appeared to be a small army of orange suited crooks standing on the road. There were at least a hundred of them, all of them carrying weapons of various sizes. One of them even had a woman by the neck, a pistol against her temple.

Coiling his muscles, Spider-Man leapt into the air, and onto the underside of a steel girder. The police squad alighted from their cars, holding their own weapons on the crowd of Ravencroft escapees.

But something didn't add up, and it didn't take the keen-minded wall-crawler a long time to figure out just what that was: there were too many inmates fanning out over the bridge.

Certainly too many to have fit into the inside of the armored truck.

"Never heard the one about how many spree killers you can fit inside a clown car," Spider-Man muttered. There were still a few inmates trickling out of the back of the truck. From his vantage point, the web-slinger could also see through the front of the wrecked vehicle. They were trying to find a getaway, and somehow they were using the hostage situation below as a screen for it.

Gritting his teeth, Spider-Man shot a score of webs at the roof of the truck. He slammed the ends to the beam of the bridge. Even if the crooks somehow managed to get the armored car started, they wouldn't get very far.

Turning his attention to the hostage-takers—what felt like the umpteenth crises of the kind he'd dealt with since Christmas—Spider-Man sought out the terrified woman clutched in the bulging arms of a rough looking thug. The wall-crawler still had the element of surprise on his side, and the more damage control he could do, the better.

He shot a line of webbing at the top of the woman's shoulder.

It went directly through her and onto the ground. The police guard gasped, but none of the Ravencroft inmates made any move. Something clicked in Spider-Man's mind, and at the same time, he noticed a very familiar figure alighting from the back of the truck along with several others.

Beck.

Mysterio.

"Oh, you have gotta freaking be kidding me," Spider-Man said.

Some sort of unfortunate, mutually disdainful telepathy seemed to link Spider-Man with Beck. The man looked up, snarled something at one of the tangible inmates. The next second, Spider-Man found himself leaping from steel beam to steel beam as the really real crook opened fire with a semi-automatic.

They wanted a getaway, and they were using one of the oldest magician's tricks in the book—misdirection—to pull it off. And judging from the fact that several of them were already climbing over the edges of the bridge, they didn't mind having to swim for their freedom.

A shock of shaggy ginger hair caught Spider-Man's eyes as he free fell from yet another volley of bullet fire. Dread like he'd never felt before seeped through him, along with a hot, furious anger.

Cletus Kasady was one of the fleeing convicts.

Snarling, Spider-Man swung to the side of a girder, and launched a web at Kasady's legs. The serial killing scum gave a scream of surprise. The wall-crawler jerked the line backwards, sending Kasady flying through the air and right towards him. He saw the pale, almost yellowish-green of the monster's eyes, reached back a fist and knocked him out flat cold. Kasady dangled pathetically from the line of webbing attached to the side of the bridge.

Satisfied, Spider-Man dropped to the pavement. There were more goons running from the armored truck, but Spider-Man couldn't tell which were real and which were Mysterio's illusions. He ducked, weaved and, at times, managed to lash out at a corporeal crook, but it wasn't enough. There were too many, and already Spider-Man was quite sure that the transport truck had been cleared of New York's worst offenders.

He leapt for the roof of the armored truck, and peered down at the scene before him. Several of the crooks turned, pointing firearms of just about every make at him.

"Sorry, but I really don't have time for—

The quip died in his throat as the brute squad opened fire. Cursing, Spider-Man jumped for the side of the bridge and began to swing around them. As long as he had their attention away from the police officers…

 _You know what would have been good about now_? He thought as he swung into a double spiral to avoid yet a hailstorm of bullets. _Something that was capable of reading my thoughts. Something that lived on my skin, symbiotically if you will_.

It was petulant, but he couldn't help it. He'd come to depend on the symbiote's abilities, and now, as much as he hated to admit it, he was slightly rusty.

Spider-Man landed on the beam above the supine and bewebbed Cletus Kasady. The bullets stopped; the crooks, those who weren't holding the police force in a tense standoff, glared at the web-slinger.

"That's right!" Spider-Man called to them. "You hit me, you hit Ginger Spice here. And I know that's the last thing that you—

A bullet whizzed past his ankle.

"Hey! What happened to the criminal code of loyalty that _Orange is the New Black_ tells me so much about!"

"We don't give a shit about that freak of nature!" One of the goons below roared. "He's sick!"

"Tell me about it," Spider-Man fired back. He glowered at Kasady, who was still ostensibly unconscious. "I honestly don't know why I give a damn about him right now."

"Let him fall then," another one of the crooks yelled. "Nobody's going to miss him."

 _Besides his wife,_ Spider-Man thought. Carlie Cooper would likely have an arrhythmia if anything perfectly just happened to her precious Cle. He wanted to take some degree of vindictive pleasure in the image, but he couldn't. It wasn't Carlie's fault that Cletus Kasady had sunk his filthy claws into her vulnerable heart.

There was a police chopper whirring around the bridge. Finely attuned spider-senses warned the web-slinger of the impending projectile a split-second too late. He looked down just as he saw the smooth, ebony shaft of what appeared to be an arrow slice through his web-line. Kasady's body fell to the street below, and Spider-Man was too stunned, and also too aloof as to the wellbeing of the bastard who'd ruined Eddie's life, to do anything but stay stuck to the bridge and look on with his mouth slightly open.

"Robin Hood?" He muttered.

The air on the street below thrummed; several more arrows were fired onto the pavement at the feet of the army of both real and illusory criminals. A moment later, bright purple smoke filled the street, and several of the goons went down coughing.

Spider-Man looked to a spot behind the line of cops and saw someone standing on a sleek black SUV—somebody wearing an armless black leather uniform, and a pair of burgundy tinted tactical glasses. The man held a compound bow in one hand a quiver of arrows over his shoulder.

"What's up, bug!" Hawkeye loaded another arrow.

"No!" Spider-Man yelled. "Stop, they're not—

But it was too late. The Avenger let the bolt fly. Cursing, Spider-Man swung down from the side of the bridge, soared over the heads of the criminals and snatched the bow from thin air. There was something small and red and flashing attached to it.

"Oh that is a bomb," Spider-Man said. He flung the lethal projectile from him and over the edge of the bridge. It exploded in a ball of fire the size of a watermelon.

"What the hell are you doing?" Hawkeye yelled. "Hey, are you one the bad guys? 'Cause I've been seeing some stories on the news lately and—

"They're not real," Spider-Man said, coming to rest on the roof of a police cruiser. It was the perfect vantage point to speak not only to the well-intentioned Avenger, but also to the squad of police. "One of the crooks was a guy I took down a while back. Name of Quentin Beck, also known as Fish Bowl Face, or the great Mysterio."

Hawkeye looked grimly at the goons on the bridge who hadn't passed out. "How can we tell which is which? There's gotta be at least a hundred of them out there."

"Look for the balls," Spider-Man said.

Hawkeye stared at him flatly. "Excuse me?"

Spider-Man pointed at the road at the feet of the holograms. Just visible beneath their shoes were the glass spheres that Beck had used in his illusions. "We get those broken and this little light show is kaputski."

Hawkeye nodded. "Target practice, huh? Sounds like a real gas."

"You deal with these idiots," Spider-Man said. He looked back down to the river. The crooks were still kicking their way across the waters of the Hudson. Had it been any other time of year and they'd have been frozen to the bone by now, but it was early summer in the Big Apple. They could swim as far as the Jersey Turnpike and then from there, who the hell knew?

Hawkeye grabbed Spider-Man by the elbow. "You're not going out there stag, buggo. I can fire farther and faster and with a bigger back of tricks than you. Let the boys in blue know what's going on with those pretty little picture balls and we can rope in the crooks together."

"Wow, are you asking me for help, Mister Avenger?"

"No, I'm asking if you want to work together."

 _Which is probably something we both should have been doing from the word go_ , Spider-Man thought. He glanced back at the line of silent illusions. There was no telling how long Hawkeye's knockout gas would work on the flesh-and-blood goons. And if they didn't act quickly, there was no telling what Beck and the others swimming for it would do once they reached land.

Spider-Man held out his hand. Hawkeye grinned and grasped it firmly.

It took only a quick word to the commanding officer on site. The squad aimed for the glass spheres along the street, and the circling police chopper was given the all clear to fly Spider-Man and Hawkeye over the Hudson, Spider-Man holding onto a line of webbing and Hawk Eye clinging to his waist.

"On your six!" Hawk Eye shouted. Spider-Man swooped deftly. The Avenger fired an arrow outfitted with a stun gel at the back of an orange jumpsuit. The crook froze, and Spider-Man shot a line of web to him, plucking him from the depths of the river and threw him onto the side of the bridge, sticking him with a blob of webbing.

"When I woke up this morning," Spider-Man said as they continued to pursue the swimming crooks, "this was the absolute last thing I ever thought I'd be doing. Not that I'm going to go complaining about it, mind you."

"I'd hate to think I was being a burden," Hawkeye said.

They continued their pattern of stunning and webbing the crooks. It was almost too easy, the force of the waters the heavy jumpsuits worn by the fleeing criminals weighing them down.

But there were still those who had gotten to land, Quentin Beck among them.

"Hey Hawkeye, how are you with thrill rides?"

"Are you talking about amusement park rides or my life in general?"

"Good answer." Spider-Man narrowed his eyes. The chopper was circling low over the side of Roosevelt Island. There only a handful of crooks now treading water, too exhausted to carry on. Spider-Man could already see the few who'd made it to land wreaking havoc. Beck and at least four other goons had taken a group of pedestrians hostage already.

"I'm going to throw you through the air now," Spider-Man said.

Hawkeye's blank faced "what" turned into a scream as the web-slinging hero made good on his word. He used his full force to fling The Avenger from him, then hastily splayed a sturdy web at a space between two buildings. Hawkeye stuck to the radial of the webbing, and Spider-Man could only wonder how many expletives the other hero had uttered during his abrupt flight through midair.

He needed Hawkeye as the element of surprise in this.

Spider-Man landed with a heavy thud on the roof of a bus that had been left parked on the side of the road. The hostage takers rounded on him instantly.

Beck seemed to have elected himself the leader. He glared at the wall-crawler.

" _Soy un perdedor_ ," Spider-Man said with a smirk. Beck snarled and motioned to one of the crooks flanking him; before the thug could open fire, Spider-Man jerked the semi-automatic out of his hands. "Aw, what's the matter, Mister Mistopholes? You not a fan of your musical namesake?"

"I'll kill you!" Beck snarled.

"Fat chance. You're outstripped, unless of course you've got more of those magical little television testicles in your back pocket."

"Try anything," Beck said, "and we'll open fire."

There was no doubt in Spider-Man's mind about that. One of the crooks closest at hand was pressing a Beretta into the jugular of a woman with long, chestnut hair. It was a complete and utter repeat of the scene on the bridge, only this time the stakes were higher because both criminal and hostage were real.

But again, Spider-Man had the upper hand. He looked to Hawkeye; sure enough, the Avenger was already lining up a volley of arrows. He'd been biding his time, getting a feel for how many thugs they were dealing with before letting loose. Spider-Man had to hand it to Hawkeye—he was a good a tactician as he was a shot.

"You're really listening to this guy?" Spider-Man had to bide a little more time, just until Hawk Eye opened fire. "Beck? Really? He's a failed stage magician with a crappy code name."

Beck growled and threw what appeared to be another illusion sphere Spider-Man's way.

"You threw a PokeBall at the wild Spider-Man!" The web-slinger caught the orb and crushed it between his fingers. "Oh no! It broke free!"

Some of the crooks gave up the ghost at that moment. Sirens were wailing from down the Roosevelt Island Bridge—they knew they were licked, and freedom was too tantalizing to sit and be part of Beck's grudge match. Relinquishing their hostages they fled, but a second later dropped like flies as Hawkeye's specialized stunning arrows hit them.

It was almost too easy. A moment later, the rest of the crooks with their hostages hit the criminals remaining. The one holding the brunette woman grimaced, but due to his immense musculature, didn't go down with Beck and the rest.

Spider-Man tensed, ready to spring into action.

The hostage in the brute's arms snarled, stamped on his foot with her high-heeled shoe, and then dug her elbow painfully into his side. The crook loosened his grasp; the woman squirmed out of his grasp, looked him square in his ugly mug and kneed him right where the sun didn't shine.

"Ouch!" Spider-Man winced, a moment of fleeting empathy passing along his brain and certain sympathetic parts of his own anatomy.

Hawkeye sliced through the webbing that held him with one of his arrows and landed with surprising ease on the street below. He hurried toward the scene as more police officers converged, but before he could so much as get out the quip that Spider-Man was sure he had forming, the brunette hostage had flung her arms around him in gratitude.

"Thank you!" She breathed. "Geez, this city really is as dangerous as people say."

Hawkeye looked mollified. "Just doing my job as an Avenger, Miss—

"Laura," the woman said, extending a graceful hand. "And hey, don't sell yourself short. You're one of the only Avengers whose ever gone out of the way to save my sorry little self."

Spider-Man rolled his eyes, but couldn't help the smile that graced his lips. It was perfect hero-damsel one-oh-one, something that made him feel immediately homesick indeed.

He made to swing away from the scene, but before he could, he heard Hawkeye mention him.

"I had plenty of help, though." The Avenger nodded in Spider-Man's direction. "Hey, leotard! Where do you think you're crawling off to, huh? Don't you wanna sign autographs?"

"Not my style. If you want my picture, you can check out Eddie Brock's work on _  
The Daily Bugle's_ homepage, though."

Hawkeye approached him as the cops converged.

"Seriously though. You were a big help."

"Big help?"

"Hulk-sized, as a matter of fact." Hawkeye was surveying Spider-Man as if he were a specimen in a laboratory. "Y'know, we're not exactly full up on our roster. And I could sure as hell use a sabbatical." Hawkeye looked over his shoulder at Laura, who was still watching him with breathless gratitude. "Why not drop off a résumé at the tower?"

Even though they'd known each other for less than half-an hour, Spider-Man already got the sense that Hawkeye had a remarkably low bullshit factor.

An Avenger.

It was something he hadn't even considered, and he could have almost kicked himself over it. He'd wanted to be at odds with them for so long, the grips of his petulant spiral blinding him to the fact that he could have teamed up with Earth's Mightiest Heroes.

He and Hawkeye _had_ made a very kickass team.

But he'd already made a promise to himself to take it easy. Mary Jane was still waiting for him, as was every aspect of his civilian life.

"Tell you what," Spider-Man said. "I'll put my name in at the temp agency, and if ever you need me, I'll probably be at the scene of some random carjacking or bank robbery. Or, y'know, maybe put a light on the roof of the Empire State Building in the shape of a spider and call me forth."

Hawkeye grimaced. "What kind of backwards pageantry is that?"

Spider-Man shrugged. "I read it in a comic book once. Catch you on the flipside, Mister Eye." And with that, Spider-Man swung away from the scene and back towards the Queensboro Bridge, feeling oddly rattled.

Most of the crooks had been apprehended; all of Beck's illusions destroyed. But one look at the commanding officer's face told the wall-crawler that things weren't entirely as hunky-dory as they seemed.

"We weren't fast enough for all of them," the captain said grimly. She looked out over the bridge with a deep regret that Spider-Man knew all too well. "Whatever Hawkeye used was strong, but some of them were only playing possum."

Swearing under his breath, Spider-Man looked out over the wreckage of the armored car. He could see red splotches of blood on the ground.

"Any fatalities?"

"No," the captain said. "Just some bad injuries. I'd say we lost at least half of the ones on the pavement. It's going to take some serious digging to figure out how this happened in the first place, and who it was that we lost."

Spider-Man felt his radioactive blood start to go cold.

The spot where he'd let Cletus Kasady fall was vacant.

The captain seemed to be reading his thoughts. She sighed, ran her hands through her short, spiked dark hair. The lines around her eyes and mouth grew more pronounced; there was sweat covering her smooth, dark skin.

 _She'd do George Stacey proud_ , Spider-Man thought.

"They're out there somewhere," the captain said. "Hopefully they've got enough sense to lay low."

"I'm not giving them the benefit of the doubt," Spider-Man said. He fired a line, gave the captain a nod and swung away from the scene, dread coiling through him like a python.

He was going to go home. He'd promised MJ, after all. But before he stopped in Queens, he planned on heading to Eddie's apartment, just to make absolutely sure.

If Cletus Kasady had escaped on that bridge, then New York City was going to be in for a hell of a time.

 **A/N: Sorry for the delay between chapters. I've been a little involved with my dog of late. She's been having terrible nightmares and my vet thinks that she's just chasing squirrels but I think they're chasing her. I've been taking her to an animal psychologist for some holding therapy and she's doing much better now.**

 **This chapter might seem like a departure from the narrative, but it is actually quite important, as you'll see. Let me know what you think, even if it's not entirely glowing!**


	12. The Intruder

Scarlet shining blood lined the scuffed white porcelain of Eddie Brock's bathroom sink. After everything he'd endured in recent months, he couldn't understand how this had happened. Even on his worst days of pain and self-loathing, he could at least pull himself together to function at some level. But this?

Eddie grimaced at his reflection. A slender line of skin blooming with a sliver of red blood ran from under his chin to just above his throat. Cutting himself while shaving was absolutely unacceptable, especially given that he'd spent the better part of ten days completely sober.

"Dumbass," he muttered to himself. The jibe was tame compared to some of the more vitriolic things he'd both called and thought of himself since that bloody Christmas Eve. But of late, he'd found himself thoroughly bored of the endless litany of abuse that his inner critic had fired his way. He'd had years of practice listening to it speak to him in his own voice using the words of his dearly departed old man: _you're no good, you aren't any good, you're no freaking good._

Eddie had shown how good he was when he'd started hitting the gym and the books. It hadn't appeased that critical Third Eye, and so he'd gone to college, become Top Dog, and gotten himself a degree and a spot on the Dean's List to boot. Even finding the job at the _Daily Bugle_ hadn't been enough to silence that cannibalistic critic; in fact, it had taken on the vocabulary of J. Jonah Jameson a time or two. Eddie had soldiered on with a wisecrack and a flirty comment, and then within months of each other, Mary Jane Watson and Peter Parker had entered his life and effectively shut the caustic self-critic up.

Dripping water onto the bathroom mat, Eddie stooped, braced his hand on the sink, and rifled in the drawers for band-aids. Finding that he didn't have any was only a slight emotional owie when, mere weeks before, it would have been cause enough for him to have reached for the nearest bottle of _Jim Beam_.

Shaking his head, he flung the towel from around his waist and went through the motions of getting dressed for the evening. It wasn't as slow a task as it had once been in the months immediately after Cletus Kasady had stuck him like a pig.

Even through all their own turmoil, Peter and MJ and had still been there-sometimes grudgingly, yes, but they hadn't abandoned him, and Eddie wasn't sure which one he loved more because of that loyalty. All he could do in return was be there, the way he had been when Peter had been dallying with his ink suit.

By the time he'd shimmied into jeans and a t-shirt, Eddie had forgotten about nipping his skin with his own shaving razor and was looking forward to a pleasant night strolling around the neighbourhood. Granted, he'd rather Peter had come to swing him over to his and Mary Jane's place in Queens, but he wasn't about to going burdening his two best friends with his unwanted presence.

He'd just decided on stopping in to the nearest sushi joint for a spicy tuna roll when his phone went off. Grimacing, Eddie contemplated ignoring the call from JJ; the editor for the _Bugle_ never failed to impress upon Eddie how lucky he was to still have a job under the circumstances, and Eddie was in too good a mood to have to listen to the son of a bitch.

Gathering his keys, Eddie hobbled on his new cane across the floor and had his hand on the doorknob when his phone went to voicemail; JJ's voice issued from the handset, and the worry therein made Eddie pause.

No way was J. Jonah Jameson worried about him.

"Brock, you better be dodging this call on account of an Ambien overdose. Whatever you do, just stay the hell in your pad tonight, at least until the cops or that spandex wearing menace deal with the situation."

Eddie frowned. Whatever had happened must have been nothing short of Armageddon for JJ to sound so worried. Eddie hadn't heard the head honcho sound so concerned since The Battle of the Bronx earlier that spring. He paused, hand still on the doorknob, debating the advisability of doing what he was told and the desire to shirk the suggestions of the dreaded Man. At that moment his cellphone went off, Bon Jovi's "I'll Be There For You," playing as it rang.

"Hey Pete," Eddie said, cradling the phone against his ear, "what's going on? JJ's worried about me going outside. Like, worried about me as a human being with thoughts and feelings and friends of my own, and not just someone on his payroll."

"He's got good reason." Peter's shouted over the rush of air and the ambience of New York City. Eddie could just picture him swinging around the skyline, but for what? "I don't know if you've been watching Twitter or the news but the shit's hitting the fan out here."

"Not another alien invasion," Eddie muttered.

"That'd be great right about now," Peter said. "Eddie, a transport truck from Ravencroft got hijacked on its way to a new prison. Most of the creeps got rounded up but some of them swam for it, and...Cletus Kasady was one of them."

Eddie felt hot fury erupt in his chest. The scars on his body where the psychotic bastard had stuck him tingled with cold, dreadful muscle memory. He swallowed down the onslaught of emotions, not wanting to appear even a fraction of how vulnerable he felt.

"Which way did they make for?"

"Jersey," Peter said. "I'm heading over to your place right now."

"You don't need to do that," Eddie said. It was bad enough that he'd made Peter and MJ feel like they had to babysit him when he'd been drinking himself to death.

"Eddie, you've got a pair big enough to put Captain America to shame, but I'm still coming over."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Eddie said. "But Pete, there's no chance of me being in the red. Kasady doesn't know where I live."

"It's still dangerous!" Peter sounded pained, and Eddie couldn't have that for numerous reasons.

"Hey, calm down, Tiger." By that point, Eddie had resigned himself to staying cooped up and collapsed on the sofa. "What's eating you?"

For a moment there was nothing but the sound of rushing air. "I'm scared, okay?" Peter finally admitted. "I know what he did before he was locked up and I don't want him getting it into his screwed up noodle that he's gotta purge his fixation with you now that he's free."

The fury he felt for Cletus Kasady grew even more, fueled by the fear Peter now felt on Eddie's behalf. Nobody made Eddie Brock's loved ones suffer. His fingers curled around the arm of the sofa.

"I'll be fine," Eddie said assuredly. "He doesn't know where to find me, and even if he somehow managed to find his way here..." What? Kasady would show deference to the security glass and turn around once he saw he needed to be buzzed into the building?

"I''m going to patrol the block," Peter said. "If I see so much as a strand of that ginger snap's hair, I'm razing the place."

Because Eddie couldn't fight back if Kasady did make an appearance. The thought triggered the long line of combustible fuel in his brain; Eddie chewed on the inside of his cheek to stave off the influx of critical thought that he felt lurking just on the outside of his restraint. He could talk himself down to the isostasy of the Earth and still he'd carry that feeling of being a burden to Peter-to everyone. And if he chose to break that rigid mantle, then the real darkness boiling beneath would surely destroy everything in its path.

Still, he'd fall on his own sword before he went back to those days of self-pity. He laughed, and said, "Fine, fine. Just don't expect me to leave the bathroom blinds open when I have my shower."

"Damn it all. There goes my plans for what to put in MJ's birthday card."

Eddie hung up, flung his phone away from his body and instantly went into a state of focused breathing. Memories of his days of more ambitious reporting crept up on him like the sinister grasp of an incubus.

He'd come to _The Daily Bugle_ as a sports reporter. Months of writing about trade deals, DUI's and Hail Mary passes had led him to the spate of grisly murders in and around Newark. To the outside observer, it had looked as if Eddie were merely one of many vulturous reporters, picking the meat from the dead in order to sustain a career.

But the brutality of those killings had made him as hot with anger as they had cold with dread. And when the Feds had made a connection between the murders and minor league baseball, Eddie had seen his chance and taken it. Kasady had been arrested a week after Eddie had written a series of articles designed to bait the son of a bitch into revealing himself. Playing on the ego of a serial killer had been daunting but also rewarding.

Eddie had been proud of himself for hauling in the monster, but with that pride had come heinous guilt. He'd furthered himself, yes, but it had been at the expense of the butchered victims of Cletus Kasady. When he'd been nearly gutted that Christmas Eve, Eddie had thought of it in a sick way as justice-recompense for his hubris.

Still, he'd thought the nightmare over thanks to MJ nearly braining Kasady to death in that skeletal apartment complex. Now here it was again-Kasady wouldn't know Eddie's whereabouts, but he was still gaining the upper hand, his mere presence in public keeping Eddie caged and in need of protection.

Hate like he'd never known coursed through his body. He wanted to throw something in rank rage. But Eddie had learned, through a series of endless mistakes, that just because he felt to do something didn't mean he needed to. Emotions and thoughts were just that: to cave to them would be to make himself alike to the very pig who'd put him in this position.

Rubbing at his face, Eddie decided that the next best thing to do would be to sleep. He hobbled to his bedroom, hating the emptiness of his apartment and the absence of Peter. He sorely wanted a drink, but sobriety meant too much to him in that everyone he knew had been so proud of him for maintaining it these many days.

Feeling as if he were stuck with his head in heavy, suffocating storm clouds, Eddie collapsed onto his bed, closed his eyes and drifted off.

He dreamed of the faces of Cletus Kasady's victims; saw and smelled salty blood. Heard himself breathing raggedly as he clung to life against Mary Jane's side. He saw that amorphous black something rise from the floor of Peter and MJ's bedroom, empty white eyes brimming with a ravenous fury fixed on Peter.

Eddie's eyes snapped open. For a moment he thought his dream had come to life: there were red splotches on the crisp white of his pillowcase. Sitting up, Eddie put his fingers to the spot on his neck that he'd nicked while shaving.

Damn it. He need band-aids. And probably rubbing alcohol. The cut was deeper than he'd initially anticipated, and all Eddie needed now was to get an infection and end up really needing to be taken care of.

Eddie groped in the near darkness of his room. He found his cane, got steadily to his feet and chanced a glance out the window, as if expecting to see Cletus Kasady hanging from a hook shot on the other side of the glass.

But there was nothing there. Besides, Eddie thought as he stumped towards the door of his apartment for the second time that night, the little bodega was just down the block and around the corner. All of New York City was alive and enjoying the heat of the summer night. Peter would likely be perched on the balcony box across the street for all Eddie knew.

He'd be perfectly fine popping out and grabbing some First Aid. And maybe the sushi he's been denied earlier. Not only would he be fine, but he was also capable.

Being out in fresh air after being cooped up so long served as the perfect balm to Eddie's soul. He inhaled the perfume of The Big Apple; the car exhaust, river water and hundreds of ethnic foods made him feel even more at home.

Nothing whatsoever happened on Eddie's way to the corner store-he passed by an open alley, nodding at the group of bikers revving their engines on the curb side. He bought his bandages from the convenience store, topped it off with a bag of chips and thoughtfully added a bottle of Sprite for Peter-if the wall-crawler was going to be holding an unnecessary vigil, Eddie might as well keep him hydrated. Thoughts of sushi forgotten, Eddie left, fully intending to go home and ignoring the frantic buzzing of his cell phone. Peter had likely seen him on the street, but Eddie wasn't in the mood to explain himself.

He passed by the alley once more; the bikers had killed their engines for the time being so that they could wolf whistle at a group of college girls hurrying across the street. In the silence, Eddie heard something from inside the alley that made him pause and change direction.

It was a pathetic mewl, the sound pulling at the part of Eddie's being that always wept during _Beauty and the Beast_. In any case, it was only a little after twilight: the alley wasn't pitch black dark, and Eddie wasn't remotely afraid.

He followed the plaintive meows to a sodden, empty box of beer. The kitten inside was so covered in dirt that Eddie didn't rightly know what color it was, but it's big blue eyes fixed on him almost at once.

"Hey little dude," Eddie said, stooping as best he could while leaning on his cane. "You're a little young to be hitting the _Pabst_." Eddie scratched the thing behind the ears, envisioning what it would be like to take it back to his apartment to clean it up when it let out a tiny hiss.

Eddie backed off. "Ferocious little bugger, aren't you?"

But the kitten continued to hiss and spit, eyes trained at a spot behind Eddie.

Eddie wondered if the cat was rabid. Then he felt an odd tremor run from his tailbone to the back of his neck. Against the fibers of his being telling him to just keep his eyes on the adorable little pussy cat, Eddie turned around.

The obsidian mass that had attacked Peter peeled itself from the alley wall. Eddie yelped and backed away. The thing was

 _familiar, friend, his, you are, mine, help me, help you, hurt you,_

towering over him like a dark tidal wave. Eddie remembered what it had done to Peter; how it had transformed him into something volatile. How it threatened him and dogged him and nearly destroyed his life with MJ.

Eddie was angry at it now, but too prudent to stand and fight against something so alien. Stooping, he seized the mewling kitten and hurried back down the alley. He heard the thing as it

 _crawling, needing, help me, hurting, you are, need to_

followed him. Eddie cursed his bum leg as he hobbled towards the exit of the alley. He was almost there, almost free.

Something caught at his ankle and he fell flat on his face, cane and kitten flying out of his hand. This was it; it was going to take over him, consume him the way it had Peter.

Eddie wondered in the space of a microsecond if that would be a bad thing. How terrible would it be for the creature to change him, to make him strong and capable? It was as tempting as an offered gram of narcotic drugs-terrible, yes, but there was something on the other side that he was burning to know.

Just as the sibilant slime made to dive for him, the bikers at the other end of the alley revved their engines once more. The creature reared backwards, its entire form vibrating as if in pain. Pieces of black ooze rippled and then finally exploded in a shower of tar-like rain. Eddie rolled out of the way, but was too late to prevent the substance from splattering into his neck and chest.

He heard

 _heartbeat, blood, beating, entry, found you, hurting, heal you,_

a strange ringing in his head, separate from that critical inner voice that he'd so often tried to drown out with drink. His vision swam and he felt the nauseating sensation of something intruding in him-it was so hideously like that bloody night when Cletus Kasady had lovingly sunk a knife into Eddie's guts over and over again.

The dizzying feeling didn't end. Eddie groped for something to stable himself as his eyes swam. He felt

 _within you, part of you, so much, pain, heal you, you knew, the other, our other_

as if his blood were on fire. Closing his eyes against the

 _pain, fiery pain, so much, body, head, heart_

onslaught of the agony. On his hands and knees he crawled towards the mouth of the alley, hearing

 _hear me, hear us, within you, part of you, part of us_

noise of the city and the careless laughter of the people.

 _Please_ , he thought, _somebody please-_

Through his blurred vision Eddie saw someone hurrying towards him. He looked up through his darkening eyes and gradually Peter's face came into relief, his eyes wide, his face pale.

Even as Eddie felt a rush of genuine relief, he also felt a prickle of alien rage so acute that it made his head throb. Something was screaming, straining against his blood vessels and bone marrow in boiling rage. Whatever it was, it wanted to hurt Peter, and it would surely crack Eddie's rib cage open in its violent effort to get out and tear his best friend's head from his neck.

 _No_ , Eddie thought, gritting his teeth so hard that he tasted blood in his tongue. _No. Not going to do that_.

He felt Peter's arms slide under his as he picked him off the filthy alley floor. The vile intrude thrashed against Eddie's veins, twisting his guts in its effort to lash out.

Eddie saw something in his darkening vision: a window black as night that he could escape to. He needed to drown out the noise and the pain, smother it to protect himself, and also to protect Peter.

Unconsciousness seized him like a friendly hand. Just before Eddie completely surrendered to its siren call, he wondered just when in the hell he would stop needing to be rescued.

* * *

Peter couldn't tell what had happened to Eddie, nor did he care. All he knew was that his best friend had passed out in an alley and looked as if he'd come down with a sudden case of Scarlet Fever.

 _Damn it Eddie_ , Peter thought as he hoisted Eddie onto his shoulder. _Why couldn't you have listened to me, huh_? Images of Cletus Kasady creeping out of the shadows and doing—something—flashed across Peter's mind, making him feel almost sick. But he couldn't afford to fall to pieces, not when Eddie once again needed him.

Disappearing further into the alley, Peter tugged his mask over his face while still keeping Eddie held on his shoulder. He swing as fast as he safely could, given his cargo, down the street. He pulled his cell phone out and dialed MJ's number, quickly explaining the situation to her and telling her to meet him at the same hospital they'd taken Eddie to on Christmas Eve.

Plain faced, Peter hurried into the admittance triage, and found a crowded foyer. He stared, dumbfounded at the wait time. Eddie was still lolled against his shoulder, his breaths shallow, his skin pasty and covered in a layer of sweat. Spurred by his mounting fear, Peter hurried through the triage and to the front desk.

"Please, " he said, "I need to get my friend to—

"You'll have to take a number," the nurse behind the glass said regretfully. "The wait time is about forty-five minutes."

"I don't know what's wrong with him," Peter said.

"Has he taken any drugs?"

Peter stared at the nurse in disbelief, furious for the so-called medical professional's obstinate behavior. He could go to another hospital, he supposed, but he'd already told Mary Jane to meet him at this one. Knowing there was nothing to be done, Peter found an empty space for he and Eddie, making sure to keep his friend upright while the minutes dragged on.

Mary Jane arrived half an hour later, her eyes wide with fear. When saw Eddie, who was still unconscious, pale-faced and sweaty, she nearly knocked over a woman on a pair of crutches in her effort to get to him.

She didn't say anything; she simply slid into the seat next to Eddie and laid her head on his shoulder.

Peter felt his skin vibrate with a need to do something, anything. Eddie's veins were standing out in stark contrast against his skin, looking almost black against his clammy flesh.

Twenty minutes after MJ arrived, and the doctors still hadn't done dick to help them. Peter's jaw clenched; he was prepared to reign down all hell upon everything in the waiting room.

But Mary Jane beat him to the punch. Evidently having had enough of the incompetence, she got to her feet, red hair fanning out behind her like a firebird. She stormed to the triage desk, rapped on the glass and said, "Excuse me, but we've been waiting here for about a thousand years and our friend isn't doing so hot. Do you think you could pry your eyes away from _Zoomer Magazine_ and maybe get him some attention please?"

They all stared at her as if she'd let off a bomb in the street outside. Peter couldn't help but laugh, even under the circumstances. His girl never failed to take something by the balls even when it there was possibly no need for it.

Before anyone could shut her down, a young nurse in a pair of blue scrubs hurried out from behind the triage desk.

"Damn, Red. You've got some cojones. Next time maybe just ask politely."

"That was me being polite," MJ muttered.

Peter blinked as the nurse hurried over to Eddie. He must have been more dazed from concern about Eddie because he thought for a second that the nurse looked a lot like Rio Morales.

The nurse crouched down in front of Eddie and checked his vitals. Peter noticed her dark brown eyes crease with confusion.

"Hey Donna!" She shouted over her shoulder. "Get the this poor kid in for an EKG."

"Sure thing, Claire."

The nurse named Claire looked to Peter. "You're going to have to help me out, buddy."

Having had his fill of waiting, Peter got to his feet, scooped Eddie into his arms as if he weighed no more than a loaf of bread—which he really didn't—and gave the night nurse a flat glare.

"Lead the way," he said.

Claire didn't look as surprised as Peter had anticipated. She arched her brows, then motioned for Peter and MJ to follow her down several corridors to a bed. Once Peter gently deposited Eddie on the pancake-flat mattress, he and MJ were ushered to the waiting chairs by a battalion of nurses and doctors.

"This is getting so old," Peter said softly; he needed to wisecrack, needed to break the dread spiraling in his head. "Do you think they'll give us frequent visitor points?"

MJ giggled nervously; Peter took her hand in his and together they waited. Peter fully anticipated to wait there for possibly several more hours. But only fifteen minutes went by before Claire returned; she looked grave.

"I'm not going to lie," she said. "He could be worse. A lot worse. He's running a pretty high fever. We're going to have to keep him overnight just in case things take a nosedive."

"I was afraid of that," Peter sighed.

MJ, however, wasn't having any of it. "His aunt is a nurse," she said, pointing at Peter. "If anything happens, she'll know what to do with him."

Claire shook her head. "I'm sorry, but it's not an option. Unless you want to run the risk of his condition taking a turn for the worse, you'll leave him here."

MJ looked as if she were about to scream in protest. "He won't like waking up in a hospital for the second time in six months," she said.

Peter brushed the back of MJ's knuckles. "I know, baby, but we have to." He looked to Claire. "I suppose if he's better off in the morning we can take him home? I don't mind picking him up."

"In the literal sense, no doubt," Claire muttered. "Damn, String Bean. You could probably give my buddy Luke a run for his money in a fist fight and there's about enough of you to make three of him." She sighed and, in answer to Peter's question, said, "If he's stabilized at all, then you'll be able to sign his release and away he goes. From what his file says, he's had some pretty nasty injuries in the past."

"Which is why it's a lousy idea to keep him here," MJ hissed. "Cletus Kasady was the one who stuck Eddie in the hospital last year and in case you haven't been watching the news, he's on the lam again."

"Then this is the last place he'll show up," Claire replied smoothly. "Hospital with a shit ton of security, remember?"

Mary Jane looked at Peter, her face set grimly. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Peter's eyes traveled to Eddie's bed.

Eddie's condition hadn't declined, but it hadn't exactly improved, either. His veins still looked to be running with tar against his sheet-white skin. He was still covered in a layer of sweat and still breathing as if it hurt him.

They didn't have a choice but to leave him for observation. Even if Peter did carry Eddie out and swing away, there wasn't much he or anyone else could do. He felt so helpless that he wanted to punch something.

"We've got no choice," he said, his voice catching. "Just…hope for the best, I guess."

MJ snarled a curse and stormed away, arms wrapped around herself, leaving Peter standing in the middle of the bustling moderated emergency room, the sounds of Eddie's heart rate monitor drilling into his brain.


	13. Shadows

_lost, shattered, crawling, can't find, pieces, missing, empty, losing, pieces, need to, find them, lost them, only wanted, help them, help me, save me, anything, didn't mean to, lost pieces, need pieces, others, sliced and diced and chipped and chopped, pain, poison, toxic, venom, seeping, skin, blood, bone, cracking, feels like, dying_

 _fleeing, sneaking, snaking, crawling, creeping, slithering, down, down, down, darkness, rotting, stench, fester, putrid, water, rushing, cold, cold, cold_

 _pulled, ripped, tide, taking me, taking us, taking them, who are we, who is them, don't know, so lost,_

 _battered, ripped, shredded, help me, help us we, no not we, not I, who's there, so scared, not scared, noises, pounding, hurts, hurts, hurts,_

 _rushing, riptide, drowning, sinking, suffocat-, no not that, can breathe, will breathe, will live, will kill_

 _hurt them, hurt us, hate them, love them, have to sto-, have to keep, pathetic, worm, strong, silent, screaming, singing_

 _someone singing, overhead, heaven, make hell, grasp them, choke them, tear them, can't do th-, can to, can to, will do, hate you, hate me, hate them, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate,_

 _up we go, to the sky, through the, pipe works to the, singing, sweetly, crying, love them, love me, love us-_

* * *

Carlie Cooper-Kasady prided herself on one thing alone: she was a trier. She tried to remain optimistic despite twenty-seven years of being battered around like a mouse caught in a riptide; she tried to be a good person despite the momentary flashes she got to snap the neck of the next person who slighted her; and she tried to forge valiantly ahead even when she knew the cards were stacked against her.

Lately she was using a great deal of energy to keep trying. Whenever she got the desire to fall to pieces or explode outwards, she recalled her Mother's words—four simple words that had become the dictum through which Carlie's life had been led: _you're not a victim._

Compared to some people in New York City, Carlie had it good, something she reminded herself as she hastily left the subway near the outermost circle of The Bronx and walked toward her apartment building. Some people, especially in this neck of the woods, were lucky to sleep in empty refrigerator boxes. She was one of the lucky ones—her building had barely been nicked by the alien invasion in the spring, so she really had nothing to complain about.

The wild wind whipped at her face as she walked homewards. A storm had been brewing for days; looking towards the river, one could see the thick mass of ugly clouds rolling towards the city. Something was coming; it was only a matter of when and how hard it hit when it broke. Carlie felt as if the coming storm mirrored her own thoughts and feelings, and she wanted to run from it as much as she wanted to have it swallow her whole and dance in the lighting.

She kept her eyes averted as the same gang that hung out near the basketball court cat-called at her. She couldn't deny the momentary flush of delight at their lewd words; after all, most men barely glanced her over let alone took the time to talk shop about what they'd like to do to her.

 _Suffer, boys_ , Carlie thought, _this Miss is taken_.

Then she reminded herself that such thoughts weren't becoming of a modern woman. Why couldn't she just keep her stupid mind on track for once?

 _Because_ , she thought savagely as she sidestepped an upturned pile of trash, _you want them to pay attention to you. You pathetic little bitch. Married to a decent man and you can't even stay faithful in your head._

Carlie wanted greatly to backhand herself. But she couldn't tell which part of herself that was—the needy, simpering little chipmunk who desperately craved approval of the world, or the critical, self-indulgent part who wanted to scratch out the eyes of everyone who'd ever brought her down.

People like Peter Parker.

Carlie had been nothing but courteous to him, and he'd been so cruel that day. Recalling the memory, she dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palms. As she made up the front steps of her building, narrowly avoiding stepping on a discarded silicone wrapper stuck to the grimy stone steps, Carlie gave herself the leeway to be furious at Peter.

Peter had probably hated her from his first day at Horizon, and all because of Cle.

Because Cle had been unwell, and had hurt Peter's precious boyfriend.

Carlie's hands trembled as she fished in the scrap heap of her second-hand purse for her _Hello Kitty_ keychain. Nobody understood Cletus the way she did. Not even his miserable psychiatrists. They didn't know how gentle and kind he could be when he wasn't sick. He'd only ever snapped at her a handful of times she'd been visiting him when he'd been at Ravencroft. In those instances he'd always been remorseful. Carlie couldn't understand why nobody else saw it—why people like Perfect Peter Parker and Mary Jane the Amazing had to hold Cletus's sickness against him. Unlike Carlie, he was a victim, and being married to her was helping him.

Carlie slid the key into the rusted lock, and as she did so, she had the unbidden thought that she really was just as deluded as they all said she was.

She suppressed a sob.

 _You're not a victim_.

The usual flurry of roaches skittered away once Carlie collapsed through the front hallway door. As usual, the smells of marijuana, old shoes and cheap air freshener greeted her. Hurriedly, Carlie went to her mailbox, noticing the newest bit of graffiti that had been added to it, and checked for her usual mail of overdue bills and rejection letters from lawyers the country over. None of them had ever offered to help Cle, and in her darkest moments—such as tonight—Carlie didn't really blame them.

 _No_ , she chided herself. _You love your husband. You have to. He's the only one who'll have you._

 _But only because you never made the effort to find anyone else,_ that shrewd voice she tried so hard to suppress whispered at her.

She needed to calm down; she needed to go to her apartment where everything was soft and colorful and safe. She needed to have a shower and get the filthy air of this disgusting foyer off of her skin before it putrefied.

Bypassing an elevator that had broken down for months, Carlie took the stairs two at a time, skirting around a cluster of girls sitting on the second landing and passing a fifth of rum between them.

"Watch out for Mrs. Manson!" One of them crowed. "How's Charlie doing these days, Creepy Carlie?"

Again that flickering beat of bloodthirsty irritation; Carlie wanted to kick the slutty little bitch down the stairs and then stomp on her skull.

But all she said was, "F-fine, thanks."

"Tell him not to hit up my apartment tonight!" The girl called after her.

Third floor and she was almost home free. Heat had crept up her neck and into her cheeks at the girl's words. But Carlie knew she shouldn't have thought something so impulsively violent. That manic desire to react had, after all, been a part of why she'd gotten married to Cle. At least according to the one and only therapist Carlie had ever visited.

 _Almost there._

Her apartment suite at the end of the hall was like a beacon of scuffed wood. All she had to do was make it through the door, and then she could lock out the sights of peeling paint, the smell of pungent pot smoke, the sounds of _Ultimate Fighting_ coming from four doors down and the demons threatening to consume her and she'd be free for another night.

Free for another night of denial and fighting til she wanted to bleed from the turmoil.

Feet from her home, and quite possibly the last person Carlie wanted to see appeared from behind the door of the suite across the hall.

"Looking for you, Cooper." The man said.

"Oh. Hello, Mister Resnick."

"Yeah whatever." Resnick was a big beefy man whose entire wardrobe comprised of wife beaters and grease stained jeans. He looked so much like an archetypical bastard that Carlie often wondered if she'd find a collection of empty beer cans over his bed.

Resnick tacked Carlie with a piggy-eyed stare that made her feel suddenly even more unclean. "Do I need to be worried, Cooper?"

"No," Carlie said. "I don't think so." She felt a reprehensible wash of panic steal over her, one that had consistently drowned her out since childhood. Rationality went south, and in next to no time she found herself babbling for the express purpose of filling the euphemistic silence. "I mean, there's a lot to be worried about these days, given that this is New York City. Like that one gang down in Hell's Kitchen. My friend Vanessa says that there's no telling what they'll do if someone doesn't keep things in check-"

"Didn't recall asking for your biography, Cooper," Resnick spat. "I wasn't talking about them gangs anyhow. I was talking about your hubby."

Carlie frowned, and at the same time felt both the licking rage at people not understanding Cle and the deep-seeded fear that she was the one in the wrong when it came to him.

"What about him?"

"You mean to say you ain't got access to the news at that science club you work at?" Resnick scowled; he was of the opinion that anyone who didn't work a nine-to-five McJob was a self-righteous son of a bitch; as Carlie was the only tenant who didn't make her paycheck stripping or working construction, she was prime in his list of people to despise for no reason.

"I'm too busy to watch the news," Carlie said meekly, secretly hating the man. "Besides it's so depressing now. I thought the alien attack was bad but now there's all this political stuff and-

"Christ, don't you ever shut up?" Resnick pinched the bridge of his nose. "Well, allow me to deliver the good news; your dearly beloved busted out of lock up tonight." Resnick grinned like a warthog. "You expecting a house call? Cuz if you are, I ain't in the mood to have that piece of shit darkening my door step."

Carlie felt as if the claws of the Devil had seized some piece of her soul and dragged it from her body.

Cletus had escaped?

Part of her was over the moon about it. After all, they could be together now. He could make good on his promises to change and make amends and get the help that he needed. She could be proof that all the world needed was love to heal deep wounds...

Except that she knew that wasn't true. Every sniggering assignation about her choice to be with Cle came back to haunt her. She knew perfectly well that they were right, those voices in the halls of Horizon Labs: Carlie Cooper had been duped by a serial killer looking for a way to entertain himself.

 _No_ , Carlie thought, tears coming to her eyes. _No. Cle loves me. Really he does._

"Aw geez, Cooper. Don't fall apart on me. It don't do much for your appearance."

Carlie wanted to sink her nails into Resnick's flabby chest and pull out his still beating heart. But she knew she'd never do such a thing because Carlie Cooper was a nice girl who liked soft, fuzzy kittens and Michelle Branch music.

 _But it really be so bad to let the demons out_ , she thought. Only she couldn't do that because if she did that-if she indulged even a fraction of an inch-then she wouldn't be able to stop and she would just end up like those girls back on the stairwell. She'd be all alone and nobody would love her, but nobody loved her now, only she wasn't sure if that was true or if-

Carlie's chest heaved at the painful onslaught. Choking on a sob, she turned and fled for the safety of her apartment, Resnick's laughter ringing in her ears like gunfire. Her mind too clouded to even discern what she even remotely felt anymore, she slammed the door shut behind her and collapsed on the plush safety of her sofa. She couldn't cry because-

 _Not a victim_ , she told herself repeatedly. _Not a victim, not a victim..._

But no matter how much she tried to tell herself that she wasn't, Carlie couldn't suppress the indignant truth that the world certainly enjoyed making her into a victim. She did everything right—she tried to be kind, tried to be good, tried to reach out in friendship. Yet each time her attempts were met with cruel pushback.

She felt a desire to scream, but after the pitiful way she'd reacted when Peter Parker had taken her to task for marrying Cle, Carlie wanted nothing more than to shut every emotional impulse down. It was as if she'd swallowed a live volcano and had no outlet for the boiling catastrophe within.

She looked around her apartment: at the soft pastel paintings on the walls; at the fuzzy fleece blankets over her sofa and the big plush arm chair in the corner; at the pile of stuffed animals on the window ledge. This was her home and it was safe and filled with pretty things because everything outside this safe square space was so ugly and unimpressive.

And Cle would probably come here and ruin it all, and she had nobody to blame but-

"No." Carlie stood up, her trembling hands working at the buttons of her light sweater. She wasn't going to sit here and stew in self-pity or fear. Cle didn't know where she lived and in any case he woudn't hurt her because he was kind and misunderstood but so bloodthirsty and probably just stringing her along and-

"NO!" Carlie screamed, clutching at her temples. She couldn't think, couldn't comprehend. She'd had episodes of this in the past, this mixed-miasma of wanting to knock someone's teeth in just to prove she could, and at the same time be consumed by something dark and devouring.

Through her confused haze she walked past her spotless kitchen with its little bunny patterned dish rags and oven mitts—passed her bedroom, where a poster for Disney's _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_ watched her like a ghost, until finally she entered the bathroom. Like everything else in this part of the city it was rundown and constantly in need of repair.

And like everything else, Carlie had tried her utmost to keep things clean and bright and cheerful.

She'd covered the cracked walls with tie-dyed veils bought from a thrift store; when the splinter at the edges of the mirror had finally grown too long to be fixed, Carlie had filled in the spidery faults with various colors of glitter glue. A porcelain duck looked at her questioningly from the back of the cistern as she undressed with shaking fingers and short, sharp breaths.

Carlie gripped the fluffy polka dot blue and white towel hanging from the rack as she stepped behind her pastel pink shower curtain and into the stained shower stall.

She just needed to breathe; to calm down and relax until she could rid herself of the rampant anxiety and ugly rage and uncertainty. Only then would she be able to approach something close to a normal equilibrium.

The water always took a minute to get warm. Carlie twisted the knob and stood back, watching the spray sluice down the drain. The rain-sound of the shower soothed her somewhat in that it drowned out the loudest of the noises in her head.

And as she watched the water swirl down the rusty drain, she forgot about Cle for a moment. Instead, her thoughts turned to Peter Parker. He probably didn't deal with the things Carlie had to contend with. Peter was well liked; Peter was intelligent and stable; Peter was in love with a woman who looked as if she'd walked out of a dream of Arthurian legend.

He'd had the nerve to try and apologize for those stinging words he'd said to her that awful day.

Carlie felt her muscles tense with a desire to hit something, and hit it hard until it bled and bruised. She supposed Peter had a perfectly lovely and functioning home; Mary Jane probably slept with him every night after they enjoyed a romantic candlelit dinner and wine. That was all Carlie wanted—not with Peter, but with somebody, anybody.

She did everything right, and yet here she was.

The water reached a soothing warmth and Carlie stepped into the embrace of it. The first moment rushing sudden heat cleared her head of all thought and feeling.

Peace.

Clarity.

She'd quite like to die right now for the chance to leave an imprint of happiness here in this place.

Who cared about anything? About Cle or even Peter Parker or anything at all really?

The savage beast within her soothed, Carlie closed her eyes and began to sing, her voice beatified by the acoustics of her cozy little piece of paradise:

" _Here comes the sun, little darling, here comes the sun..."_

Her worries and cares swirled down the drain. Carlie savored the feeling of the soothing hot water as it eased her mind. For one slight moment, she thought she heard something—a sort of buzz of words rattling around her head.

But Carlie had lived so long with a mind that was barely held to cohesion that she didn't think anything of it.

So consumed was she by this sliver of peace that she didn't notice the intruding presence that slunk into her bathroom until it was too late.

* * *

Resnick was used to getting noise complaints. It came with the territory of being the landlord for a building that was just a few blocks shy of being in the worst part of Hell's Kitchen. Depending on his mood, he would either respond to the requests that he "get off his fat ass and do something," or else just sit back with the latest episode of _The Walking Dead_ playing at top volume.

So, when he first heard the sounds of what he could only think to be an F5 tornado coming from the suite belonging to Carlie Cooper-Kasady, Resnick opted for the former option. It was a surprise to him, given that he couldn't quite help but be annoyed by the mousey, bespectacled little snipe on the best of days.

Yet he couldn't find it in him to just ignore the thunderous sounds. Not only would it bother everyone on the floor, but he was genuinely concerned. Carlie was married to an escaped serial killer, and even though Resnick was confident that Cletus Kasady was nowhere close to the vicinity of The Bronx, he still had to make absolutely certain that there was nothing horrible afoot.

The sounds were worse outside of Resnick's apartment—glass shattered; heavy objects sounded as if they were being hurled at every square inch of wall. In any other residence, there would be tenants peering nervously out from behind their suite doors. Resnick's tenants knew better; certainly sounds of domestic violence weren't uncommon in this neck of the woods.

So, hiking his jeans up his waist, Resnick started down the hallway and banged on Cooper's door.

"This ain't the way to draw attention to yourself, Cooper! Try low cut tops or something."

The noises ceased all at once. Resnick frowned, pressed his ear to the door and waited. When he couldn't determine any other sounds, he knocked and said, "Everything okay in there, Cooper?" Resnick thought briefly of Cletus Kasady; part of him felt a sickening wave of dread at the notion of the unhinged bastard having broken in for a honeymoon with his bride.

There was silence again. And then Resnick heard something that sounded like a wounded animal in pain—a sort of pitiful whimpering.

"Cooper?"

Against his better judgment, Resnick turned the doorknob. He'd seen the news reports on Cletus Kasady's bloody rampage. He expected to find bright lights on the other side, a series of mirrors perhaps, and gore the likes of which religiously watching _The Walking Dead_ wouldn't have prepared him to face in real life.

But there was nothing waiting for him aside from darkness.

All the blinds had been drawn over the windows, so that only the faint pollution of diner signs and streetlamps filtered through.

Resnick didn't like the shadows; as he stepped across the threshold, the door clicking shut behind him, he felt as if something were watching him from the darkness.

His barefoot knocked against something on the ground that rolled into the blackness surrounding him.

"Cooper? Are you…everything okay?"

Resnick paused in the middle of the floor, peering into the shadows but still unable to see hide or hair of the mousey young woman who never failed to annoy him.

Something moved fast as a shot behind him. Resnick turned around at the rush of air, but saw nothing. He didn't know why, but he was filled with an overwhelming desire to get out and get out as fast as he could.

But it was only Carlie Cooper-Kasady who lived here, he reminded himself. She was about as dangerous as a fluff of pollen.

Her husband on the other hand...

Out from the darkness a voice that sounded as it were gleefully dancing on the cusp of madness said, "Can I ask you a question, Mister Resnick? I want you to answer honestly. I promise I'll go easy on you no matter what the answer."

Resnick swallowed down his fear, his eyes darting to the door, the windows...anything that could offer him solace of escape.

"Sure," he said, trying to keep his voice dry. "Fire away."

"Do you think I'm pretty?"

Blinking in confusion, Resnick stared into the darkness. And as he watched, a figure emerged, and as they emerged fully from the darkness, a change so horrific overcame the figure that Resnick felt his blood drain from his face. He backed away, tripping over the destroyed furniture on the floor.

It—the thing, stood above him, a broad black smile across its sleek red skin. Immense white eyes kept Resnick pinned to the floor with malicious intent.

"How about it now?" There was a horrible echo to its voice, as if it were the vessel for a billion fell spirits.

"N-no," Resnick moaned, wanting the thing to get away from him. "No!"

But it only threw its head back and let out a wild scream of laughter.

Resnick tried to crawl away, but something sibilant snaked around his ankle. The world turned topsy-turvy and he found himself looking into the horrible eyes of the creature.

"Hey Resnick? Remember when I said I'd go easy on you?" The thing's mouth stretched into a horrible maw of blackness and long, uneven, obsidian teeth. " _I LIED_!"

Resnick screamed; and the screams echoed throughout the apartment building. But nobody so much as poked a head out of their homes.

Nobody came to help him, and Resnick was soon to find that there were worse things that could happen to him than being murdered.


	14. Ensnared

Peter and Mary Jane dragged themselves all the way back to Queens by taxi the night of Eddie's hospitalization—Peter too exhausted and filled with terror over what had happened to Eddie to swing them back and Mary Jane all that and also too furious with the slipshod way she thought Eddie had been handled to be cautious with her money.

Peter had watched the city go by feeling as if the entire bloody length of his guts had been poured with molten adamantium. Yet even before he allowed himself to drop off the precipice of blame for Eddie's most recent hospitalization, Mary Jane slid her hand into his. He could see his own tumultuous anger and fear reflected in her eyes; they were both in this together, he remembered.

Now wasn't the time for destroying himself with guilt and fear—now was the time to cling to the people around him and do everything in his power to ensure that nothing further happened to Eddie.

They collapsed into bed when they got home.

Sleep came oddly easily under the circumstances; then again, Peter had found that the feeling of being pressed upon by some unholy weight had the benefit of making him take the fast train to la la land better than an entire bottle of NyQuil.

He woke a little after six, feeling as if he'd been run over by the entire DC Metro line. The bed was empty beside him, and for one moment, Peter let himself be given over to an unfounded panic.

"MJ?" He climbed out of bed, tripping over his own feet in his bleary state.

To his relief, he heard her voice from the kitchen. "I'm in here, sleepyhead." The sound of her fingers hitting a keyboard reached his sensitive ears. Before he'd even untangled his feet from the pile of laundry on the floor, he could smell the smooth roast of a fresh pot of coffee.

Mary Jane sat at the kitchen table, her hair tied in a ponytail. Freshly showered and with an old housecoat passed down to her from her late mother from her Aunt Anna, she was focused determinedly on the screen of her MacBook.

Peter grinned, stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Placing a kiss on top of her head, he said, "Watch your feet. You work any faster and you might actually let the grass grow under it."

MJ grinned. "I learned from the best. There's a fresh pot for you."

"And unless I'm much mistaken, you look as if you're in the mood for something with lots of carbs and sugar."

"Goodness, Mister Parker. Are you developing telepathy along with all your other powers?"

"Maybe. Maybe I just know you well."

Five minutes later, Peter was at the table, a steaming mug of coffee beside him and a pile of maple sugar toaster strudels between himself and MJ.

"What's the story, morning glory?" Had it been any earlier time in history and he was sure that the table would have been piled with newspaper clippings and other investigative accouterments. As it was, MJ only had a notepad open next to her as she kept her eyes on the screen of her computer.

"Using my own superpower," she said with a small, satisfied smirk. "Social media to be exact. I've got TweetDeck open, looking for anything coming out of the city about suspicious attacks or even updates on the escapees. I've also put out a call to my own pool of followers, asking them for any information. I've been going through every subheading on MayoClinic about Eddie's symptoms and, just for the sake of levity, I have Zulily open and about three hundred bucks worth of clothes in a shopping cart."

"Have I ever told you how incredible you are?"

"Often, but I could stand to hear it again."

"You're incredible, Mary Jane Watson." Incredible, beautiful and also completely incapable of doing something as basic as sleeping when someone she loved was in danger. Peter could tell from the shadows under MJ's eyes that she probably hadn't slept more than four hours. It was just like her to need to find something to do to help Eddie, and she was resourceful enough to play with the deck she'd been dealt.

Peter licked a stray crumb of frosting from his lips. "Anything yet?"

"Lots." She rubbed her eyes, and then scowled, as if taking herself to task fro the simple human act of exhaustion. "There's so much that I can't really sift what's turbo-crazy from what's New York City crazy. Definitely an influx in violent crap happening all over the places. But some of the murders could just be muggings gone wrong."

Peter stared at his second half-eaten piece of breakfast pastry. In his mind's eye he saw Eddie the way that he'd been the night before—pale as snow, his veins black as tar; unable to move or speak and barely clinging to life.

His throat tightened, but even so he still heard the pathetic half-squeak of fear that escaped his lips.

MJ looked at him from across the top of her laptop. Just the sight of her was enough to pull Peter from the grips of the threatening spiral.

He smiled.

"Strong, right?" He said.

"Like a Valkyrie."

"Damn right." Of course he had to get a grip on himself. It wasn't going to help anybody by falling to pieces again.

MJ glanced at the screen, and then frowned. Peter noticed her eyes fly across whatever it was that she was reading; he could tell right away that it wasn't a cause of sunshine, lollipops and rainbows, and so got to his feet.

There was a snowstorm of Tweets on the column marked "NEWS." Peter hadn't ever thought of how one hundred and forty-two characters could fill him with such foreboding, but as he watched the news pouring in, his guts turned over.

"In the Bronx," MJ said. "Several people in an apartment building were found mutilated in their homes."

Peter forced himself to breathe calmly, despite the terror snaking up his spine. "Kasady?"

"It's gotta be," MJ said numbly.

"But the story just broke, right? If he killed that many people in an apartment building, why didn't anyone call the police?"

"It's by Hell's Kitchen, Tiger. If you know what's good for you, you mind your own business when you hear your next door neighbor screaming for help."

Peter squeezed MJ's shoulder and glanced out the kitchen window. The day was murky and overcast; the trees lining the street outside bent in a stiff breeze as the rumor of the brewing storm crept along the city.

"I'm going to go check it out," he said. "I'll be back as soon as I get a scope, okay?"

"Mhm." MJ looked into his eyes. Despite her faith in him, she still reserved a healthy amount of worry for his well being whenever he went out on patrol. Smiling, Peter kissed her softly.

"Buy yourself something nice, yeah?" He nodded at the computer, where news of the murderers in The Bronx continued to pour in. "You put up with enough as it is."

"So the whole three hundred dollars is good?"

"It's your credit card." Peter stuck his tongue out, then hurried back to the bedroom and dressed in a fresh Spider-Man suit. Throwing some loose sweats and a hoody on to cover his costume, he was out the door in three minutes.

Glancing back once, he saw Mary Jane still fixed on her computer screen, her face set grimly.

 _Cliché as it sounds,_ he thought as he hurried towards St. Alban's Church, _I really don't know how she does it. Keeping it all together while putting up with all my baggage…_

He swung through the stiff, cool morning, battling the breeze that swept over The Hudson. Try as he might, he couldn't shake thoughts of Cletus Kasady. Making grotesque tableaus of his crimes was his modus operandi; and unless a really creative copycat had blossomed at the same time the sick bastard had escaped, Peter was willing to bet money that Carlie Cooper's beloved had fallen back into old habits.

It wasn't difficult to find the apartment building. Police officers patrolled Hell's Kitchen like starved lions prowling a drought-ridden migration plain. All the people who'd been unfortunate enough to live there during the alien invasion had been hard-by enough; with their shops and homes all but razed, Hell's Kitchen was a hunting ground for buzzards and predators.

Several patrol cars were camped outside a nondescript looking apartment building near the subway exit. News crews were setting up; word of the murderers had only just broken, which Spider-Man counted as a blessing. He swung to the top of a billboard, the better to get a scope of the scene.

His jaw clenched as he caught sight of the several body bags being loaded into the back of a battalion of ambulances. The ashen faces of the police officers and paramedics were enough to tell him that whatever he was going to find inside wasn't going to be good.

He swung down to the street, landing just behind a cluster of officers conversing in low voices. They started at the sound of his feet landing on the pavement, and when they saw him, their faces paled.

Spider-Man sighed, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. "I guess my reputation precedes me." Eddie's cover article about the Spider-Man impostor being responsible for the mayhem on the Queensboro Bridge and other places had gone live days before. Since then, the tide had somewhat turned, although the web-slinger wasn't ignorant enough to think that everyone on The Big Apple was about to jaunt down the street singing his praises.

But the hostility he felt rolling from the women and men in blue around him was more than he'd been expecting.

Spider-Man noticed one of the officers gently caress the butt of his handgun. Itching to fire a web at the offending firearm, he instead looked to the first lieutenant. "What happened?"

The woman eyed him as if she seriously doubted the information being any of his business.

"This is a job for the police," she said tersely. "I think you need to step off."

"I thought you might say that." Spider-Man looked towards the front of the apartment building. "Let me guess? Bodies posed like mannequins in a wax museum?"

The lieutenant's scowl only deepened. "And if they were, just how in the hell are you privy to that piece of information?"

"I'd be responsible for it, if it was," he replied. "Cletus Kasady escaped on my watch."

"Cletus Kasady?" The lieutenant all but glared at Spider-Man.

 _They don't know_ , Spider-Man thought. _They don't know that he was one of the bastards who slipped through my delicate little fingers yesterday._

"Very well. I can see I'm about as welcome here as a Metallica fan at a Taylor Swift concert." He backed away. Several of the officers actually pulled their weapons on him. Feeling his spider-senses prickle, and also seriously alarmed in general, he fired a web and swing away from the scene as fast as he could.

But not away from the apartment building.

If the cops—who he'd never been on unfriendly terms with since the days of George Stacey—were treating him like a viral fungus, then he was going to find out his way.

He launched himself onto the back of the apartment building, the cracked bricks beneath his fingers almost crushing through his gloves. He crawled up the wall and slipped through a window at the end of the third floor hallway.

Even before he touched the filthy, yellowish-green carpet he smelled the blood. The tinny tang of it almost made him cough. Every sense in his body was on end for danger. He could see at least three suites with yellow tape criss-crossed over the doors.

Quietly as he could, Spider-Man crept to the first taped-off suite, his sense alert for any sounds of the police. It was so ridiculous, the feeling of having to avoid people that he'd helped only the previous day. He wasn't a criminal—a menace in the eyes of people like J. Jonah Jameson, certainly, but the NYPD had mostly taken his assistance in stride.

Ducking under the police tape, Spider-Man stepped into the suite.

The toaster strudels he'd eaten for breakfast rolled over in his stomach; bile rose in his throat, and he turned away, covering his mouth. He'd seen horrors in his life, yes, but nothing had prepared him for the scene of absolute carnage in the apartment suite.

It was as if whatever had massacre whoever had lived here had held not only human life in disregard, but also the sanctity of the remains. Blood wasn't simply only ever surface—it painted the walls and the floor and the furniture. The deceased had evidently been removed, but the rumor of the body's presence was found in the squelshy bits and pieces that Spider-Man could see around the room. And what was worst of all, were the tangles of what appeared to be crimson and obsidian vines stretching from wall to wall.

His eyes watering, Spider-Man stepped back out of the suite, tripping through several strands of the bizarre web that intersected from across the room.

He had just enough presence of mind to avoid tripping over the police tape. There was no doubt about it—this bore the exact mark of Cletus Kasady's killings. Only there was something entirely otherworldly about it—something that gave the wall-crawler a sense of terror more profound than simply having come across a grisly murder scene.

The silence on the topmost floor of the building was profound. His skin crawled; he glanced down the corridor at the other suites that had been marked off with police tape.

How many people had Kasady slaughtered here?

He had to get back to the hospital, had to make sure that Eddie was safe. If Kasady was already engaging in his spree, than he wouldn't think twice about massacring his way through a building full of the sick and in the injured.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Before the police officers had even reached the landing, Spider-Man was already out the window and swinging away. The air rippled and a bullet flew his way, missing him but leaving him completely shaken and stunned.

"What the hell is going on?" He snarled. "I know I haven't exactly been the perfect Spider-Man lately, but I'm not all that bad."

The phone in Spider-Man's pocketed vibrated against his skin. He landed on top of a water tower and answered it, surprised to find his hands shaking.

"Hey baby."

"You sound about as good as I feel right now."

"Just wishing I'd come here on an empty stomach, is all."

"Come home then. I'll make an omelet. Besides, it's going to rain soon, and I don't think you should be out right now."

Spider-Man frowned. MJ sounded slightly off, as if she were witnessing something she couldn't quite believe. Sirens were wailing all around him from far off, making it hard for him to concentrate.

"MJ, what's wrong? You sound a little freaked out."

MJ laughed hollowly. "It's nothing. Just doing all this investigative crap on three hours of sleep is making me a space case."

That made sense, but still, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something she wasn't telling him.

She's scared of something, he realized.

Before his tangle with the symbiote, he would have brushed MJ's current attitude and desire for him to come home off as simple concern for his safety. He had his ways of getting his own information, and he would have thought nothing of pursuing it to the end.

But MJ was more important than the hunt for the truth.

"Alright. I'm on my way."

"Please hurry. I love you."

"Love you too."

Spider-Man hung up and swung away from the scene, feeling a heaviness in his heart and weightiness in his mind that he didn't at all like.

Had she really stumbled upon something so awful?

The sirens below him continued to scream. He heard the approach of a police chopper, the blades slicing through air rife with the threat of the oncoming storm. It was all par for the course in New York City, and so he didn't think much of it as he propelled himself along the street.

He swooped upwards into an arc, prepared to fire a line at radio tower the better to get back to Queens faster.

His spider-senses screamed at him. A moment later, he found himself dodging a volley of bullets.

"What the hell?" Spider-Man twisted his body to avoid the projectiles and sought safe ground on the side of a billboard. He stared around looking for some sign of his attackers.

He'd expected to see a mob of armed men on the street below.

What he hadn't expected were the police cars now pulled over on the curb. A squad of officers lined the street, their guns aimed at him. The chopper he'd heard earlier pulled in low, disturbing dust and debris on the sidewalk. Civilians scattered and shrieked, running for cover.

Stunned motionless, the wall-crawler stared for one split-second at the cops below. They couldn't be serious, could they? Not after he'd helped them just the previous day?

His spider-senses warned him of the impending volley of bullets just in time. With a cry of alarm, he propelled himself off the billboard and fired a web at the only thing he could use to get enough height and speed—the underside of the circling police chopper.

Bullets pinged off the metal body. Spider-Man let go, launching into a free-fall before webbing his way as fast as he could down the street. More sirens blared behind him as another battalion of cop cars gave chase from the side streets.

"This is not happening," he said through gritted teeth. "This is not happening, this is not happening." Air rushed passed his masked voice as he swung at top speed, the better to escape the pursuing officers.

Another a police chopper rose seemingly from nowhere as Spider-Man swing for the cover of Manhattan proper. It was risky, given that there were far more police stations here, as well as scores of people. At the same time, the closeness of buildings gave him a better advantage at both hiding and fleeing, and he knew that the NYPD wouldn't be as likely to open fire on Fifth Avenue as they were in a place like The Bronx.

 _Which really bears looking into, as far as this itsy-bitsy spider is concerned,_ Spider-Man thought angrily.

The skyscrapers created the perfect forest of cover for him. The chopper couldn't fly that low, but he could still hear them hovering overhead like circling buzzards. He zoomed passed the stunned pedestrians and the squad cars on the street. He needed to find cover and find it fast, just until he could change back into his civilian clothes and get onto the subway.

He needed a water tower or an open garbage dumpster or—

Or a condemned building. The cops wouldn't be able to see him as he changed; there was enough cover for him to strips his costume off and get changed.

Manhattan, not hurting for building projects, soon offered a chance for succor. Spider-Man gritted his teeth, swung around an old office building. His legs forward, he kicked down a boarded up window covering an apartment building that had been erected in the Thirties.

He landed with an audible thump on the dirt-strewn floor. Breathing heavily, he looked out the impromptu window; the choppers still circled in the distance; the sirens still screamed from the streets below, but they hadn't noticed him.

"Thank God."

Despite the noncommittal statement, his legs still shook. His mind was reeling from the unexpectedness of the chase. What the hell had gotten into the police? Had they mistaken him for something else? The pursuit, coupled with his grisly discovery in the apartment building back in Hell's Kitchen, was almost too much to deal with so early on the morning. And on the heels of Eddie being hospitalized yet again…

Spider-Man fished in his pocket for his phone as he headed into the derelict hallway.

MJ was shrill and panic-stricken when she answered after the first ring.

"Please tell me you're on your way home."

"Let me guess: Spidey pursued by NYPD is making its rounds online?"

"Among other things! I didn't want to say anything earlier because I knew you'd probably take off to go sniffing it out, but that apartment building…it wasn't the only one, Tiger."

Spider-Man froze, halfway down the musty corridor.

"What?"

"Remember when I said I couldn't tell New York crazy from special crazy? That special crazy is making the rounds now, Tiger. All over the place. All the same stuff. Really bloody, really bad and really crazy."

"Let me guess…black and red webbing at every scene."

"And then some. The last one I checked out after you left had actual photos from someone's camera-phone. Kasady must have it in for you because there was a big, black spider left over top of the place he posed the bodies."

Ice snaked its way up the web-slinger's boots and into his spine.

"I'll be home as soon as I can," he said.

"And you're not going out until—

But whatever date down the road Mary Jane had decided on, Spider-Man never found out. His spider-senses bristled; something was hurtling towards him, fast and hard and full of energy. He had just enough time to leap to the ceiling before the wall behind him was blasted open. Brick and mortar flew through the air; a cloud of dust consumed the hallway; the phone went flying from his hands. Spider-Man dropped to the floor in a predatory crouch, staring down the figure that hovered in the plumes of dust.

Two eyes glowing a deadly electric blue were the first sign of his assailant's approach. It was only when Spider-Man saw the triangle at the figure's chest, equally as steely blue as the eyes, that he knew who it was.

All pretense of escape vanished. He stood up, holding his hands out in a gesture of supplication.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Hold the phone there, bucket head. I don't know what you think is going on here—

"I'm not one for thinking," Iron Man said, holding his palm forward. "I'm more of a grab-it-by-the-horns kind of guy." The pulse of energy made the air in the hallway burn. Spider-Man yelped and clung to the ceiling. He scampered as fast as he could in the opposite direction, but Iron Man was too fast. The Avenger charged the thrusters of his suit and was on the wall-crawler in a matter of seconds.

He seized Spider-Man by the shoulders; both heroes went zooming through the air and out the opposite window.

Snarling, Spider-Man launched a wall-aimed volley of webs at the back of the nearest surface he could. Iron Man, still clutching him tightly, laughed.

"Panic reflex?"

"Planning ahead," Spider-Man yelled over the rushing of wind. Iron Man looked around a moment too late. The length of webs that Spider-Man had fired went taut as he pulled back on them, breaking the velocity of Iron Man's flight like the bands of a slingshot. Unprepared for the shift in speed, the Avenger's grip slackened and both he and Spider-Man went into a momentary free-fall.

Unable to help himself, Spider-Man socked the tin-plated hero square in the face. Iron Man's helmet splintered from the force and he spiraled downward. Spider-Man launched a web to the top of a nearby building, swooped down, and caught the Avenger in his arm.

"That," Spider-Man spat, "is for declining the vacation request of everyone working at Horizon Labs, ya cheap sardine can."

Iron Man shook his head. Through the cracks in his helmet, Spider-Man could see the wide-eyed stare of one Tony Stark.

"Good right hook," he said as they continued to fly through the air.

"Thanks. I got a lot of those in my life. Kind of learned via osmosis."

"Punches, eh? I feel like that would be more of a reactive absorption."

"You got me, Tin Man. Guess I need to brush up on my science one-oh-one."

"Wait. No. Sorry. Blunt force trauma knocked my poor little cranium around. It wouldn't be reactive absorption, it would be more kinetic, wouldn't it?"

"Hey. You're right. Wow. I guess I don't know as much as I thought it did."

"We should form a study group."

"That would be just swell. I don't think my girlfriend would be too upset at having a local celebrity over for dinner."

"And my babysitter wouldn't be too upset at having a falsely accused murderer over, either."

Spider-Man stared at the red-and-gold hero clutched in his arm. "Come again?"

"Thought that might get your attention. Also, I have to apologize for this in advance because I plan on working through this little scenelet with the help of some Cristal later and I've been told I get forgetful when I'm drunk."

"What?"

"I also apparently send unsolicited dick pics to Captain America, but that's besides the point."

A sharp pain ratcheted up Spider-Man's side. His muscles seized and his grip on the webbing slackened. He fell with an awful dead weight, as if he were nothing more than a bag of bricks.

Through streaming eyes he saw Iron Man recharge his thrusters and swoop down. Iron Man gripped him by the back of his suit, and then they were flying through the air at nearly Mach One.

He didn't know where they were going. All he knew was that he was helpless—that Mary Jane would be up and waiting for him; that Aunt May and Rio and Miles would probably be confused and worried along, and that Eddie was still hanging possibly near-death and there was nothing he could do. He wanted to scream and lash out—to grab Iron Man's leg and crush it in his grasp.

But whatever it was that the Avenger hit him with had rendered him completely immobile.

Spider-Man thought they were going to the nearest police station. But Iron Man was flying over the Hudson River, and soon the skyscrapers of New York City were nothing but distant shapes behind them.

They were leaving the city behind, leaving the state, and that only confused and worried the prone web-slinger even more. He had dropped his phone in the building where Iron Man had attacked him.

There was no way to get a hold of the people who mattered to him—the people who would be doubtless pacing in dread at what had become of him.

He didn't know how much time had passed—all he knew was that the countryside below him had turned from lush forests to the beginnings of some metropolitan area far too quickly. Iron Man was outracing the planes that flew below the line of the billowing storm clouds. Rain splattered on both heroes, but still Iron Man did not pause his flight.

The descent came somewhere near the Potomac River. Spider-Man couldn't see where they were until the Avenger began to slow. Iron Man hoisted his superhuman cargo upwards, into a half-standing position, and it was then that Spider-Man saw where they were headed.

A large structure loomed out over the waters of the Potomac—an industrial peninsula of Theodore Roosevelt Island. It was tall, with several outlying structures curving inwards in a broken circle.

"Welcome to the Triskelion, kid," Iron Man said as he hovered towards what appeared to be a landing strip. "It's got all the usual accommodations: hot and cold running water, room service, a lap pool and security so state of the art that it would make the CIA salivate if S.H.I.E.L.D didn't hate them so much."

Rain was falling thick and fast now. There were only a handful of people waiting on the landing strip for them, hidden from the downpour by thick black umbrellas.

Iron Man landed in front of them, and several burly men hurried forward. In next to no time, strange metal bands had been clamped to Spider-Man's wrists and ankles. One of the security detail hit a button, and invisible tension formed between the shackles.

"Gravity cuffs," Iron Man said. "Like I said, the CIA would be sporting some real ragers if they found the kind of toys the people here play with."

"Charming," said a woman with sleek dark hair and determined almond eyes. She examined Spider-Man with her lips pressed together; not angry…almost as if she were doing something against her better judgment. "You could try to keep your humor a bit more PG, Mister Stark."

"There's no fun in PG, Melinda." He glanced at Spider-Man once more. "You're not going to waterboard him, are you?"

A tough looking young man with short dark hair and a tawny skin rolled his eyes. "No. Although given what this bastard's been getting up to in the Big Apple, I'd say he deserves it."

"Grant, shut up," said Melinda. "And take him to the holding cell." May scanned Spider-Man's body and then stooped and extracted something metallic and sharp from his side. She turned it over in her fingers, a quizzical look on her face. "Fast acting tranq. Amateur, but effective."

"I'm full of surprises. But only when Pepper lets me into my toy box." Iron Man said. Through the cracks in his mask, Spider-Man could see Tony Stark's tired, haunted eyes fixed on the man called Grant in blazing distrust. "You sure you're going to play nicely?"

"Yes," said Melinda. "We'll take him to a holding cell and let the tranquilizer wear out. Coulson wants him alive and talking of his own volition. I'll be doing the interrogation with Grant and Katya." May nodded to a young woman with long black hair and cold, grey eyes among the assembled;

"And Fury?"

Melinda looked Iron Man square in the eyes. "He's not a S.S. Guard, Mister Stark. He's not of the same mindset as Coulson and the rest of us."

"Most of us," Grant spat.

Melinda ignored him. "But Fury doesn't want any harm coming to the suspects if he can help it."

"I'll say I believe you for the sake of getting out of the rain before I rust my nuts off." The triangle in Iron Man's chest began to glow. "And Melinda? Be nice to the kid, yeah?"

Grant snorted. "Sympathy for the Devil, Iron Man?"

"He's no Devil. He could have let me wind up street pizza back in NYC, but he didn't. That's worth brownie points in my book." And with that, Iron Man took to the skies, leaving Spider-Man alone and entirely at the mercy of the agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.


	15. Turnabout

Due to the impossible, invisible gravity between the bonds on his wrists and ankles, there was nothing Spider-Man could do but allow himself to be half-dragged forward by the burly agents flanking Melinda and Grant. The one woman, Katya, had him by his upper arm, and he felt as if the dark-haired, slender woman wasn't even using half of her strength to keep him in place.

Agents teemed within the confines of the building, most of them dressed in the same dark blue suits as Melinda and the others. They scarcely seemed to notice Spider-Man being dragged through the corridors; many of them had the same harried, anxious looks on their faces, as if the fate of the world were resting on their shoulders.

They could have cared less about his being there for something he hadn't done. But Grant, on the other hand, did.

"I don't see why Stark wants him treated with kid gloves," he said as the small battalion and their captive stopped in front of a glass-fronted elevator. "After all the crap he got up to in New York City lately, we should feed him to the wolves."

" _Suspected_ crap," Melinda said; her composure didn't slip at all, but Spider-Man had the distinct impression that she wanted nothing more than to wring her colleague's neck. "That article on _The Daily Bugle_ presented a pretty compelling argument for the possibility of an imposter."

Grant snorted as the doors slid open. The squad half-carried Spider-Man inside; Katya squeezed his arm, almost…comfortingly?

"Who else swings around New York City, huh? He may have changed his threads, but he still just about dropped that guy off the edge of the bridge."

"He also helped Hawkeye round up the Ravencroft escapees," Melinda said. "That isn't indicative of a man on the side of evil."

"But slaughtering a bunch of innocent people is."

"And that is what we're going to get to the bottom of. With his co-operation, we'll be able to determine what's actually happening."

Grant made a noise that clearly demonstrated his lack of faith in any story Spider-Man had. The wall-crawler already guessed that the dark-eyed agent's made was mind up in terms of guilty and innocent.

Melinda reached the limit of her patience. The elevator doors slid open, but before Grant or the others could move through, she put her arm across their only path out.

"This isn't the Inquisition. Even with as much evidence as there is against him, it's only primary. Nobody saw him at the scenes of those crimes; nobody saw him leaving after they were committed. For all I know, he could very well be that cold blooded. God knows he didn't come running to Thor's rescue when Hydra attacked the Baxter Building. But even if there's a hair of conflicting evidence in any kind of investigation, I'm not going to run the risk of overlooking it. Are we clear, Agent Ward?"

Grant stared at Melinda for a lingering moment in which he seemed to be debating the benefits of arguing his case. He exhaled through his nose, nodded, and then cracked a small, almost sheepish smile.

"Alright. Alright, we'll do it your way. But don't be surprised if I play the Bad Cop. Katya?" He turned to the dark-haired agent still holding Spider-Man's arm almost protectively. "After you."

Katya inclined her head and, with the aid of her fellows, dragged Spider-Man into a long corridor. His toes slid along the concrete floor; cold, industrial steel surrounded him. They'd taken him to a subterranean prison, and he wasn't optimistic enough to assume that there would be an easy way out.

One of the flanking officers opened a door to a holding cell that, while not a room at the Ritz, wasn't as devoid of necessities as Spider-Man had anticipated. At the very least, it had a pallet bed, a sink and a toilet.

Katya and the other two deposited him onto the mattress and then returned to the corridor. The door shut with an almighty clang, and the hero's sensitive ears heard the unmistakable sounds of industrial-grade locks sliding into place. A moment later, the sensation of immense gravity between his wrists and ankles vanished; the bonds unlocked and fell to the concrete floor with a clatter, but still, the hero couldn't move a muscle.

Melinda's voice crackled through an intercom throughout the cell.

"The tranquilizer will lose potency after about four hours. You'll have time to freshen up. There's a change of clothes in the case under the cot. It's in your best interests to change your costume yourself. I'd rather not subject you to any force unless absolutely necessary."

Then the feed broke, and Spider-Man found himself alone and immobile.

He had nothing but his thoughts. There was no hope to lash out or protest his innocence or even break down; he couldn't move, couldn't speak—could do nothing but lie there like a block of wood and stare unendingly up at the industrial-gray ceiling of his cell.

How long would they keep him here? What would they do if they didn't like what they heard from him? Iron Man had asked that they play nicely, but Spider-Man highly doubted that the agents—least of all Grant—would do any such thing if he didn't co-operate.

For once, he didn't know what to do—didn't know how to worm his way out of his situation. Even in the chance that he escaped, there was no way for him to return to New York City without first having to find the nearest AmTrac station.

 _They think I did it_ , he thought, wishing that the realization would turn him cold.

Everything he'd done under the influence of the symbiote had come back to bite him in his radioactive backside. He wanted to bang his head against something solid. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let the damn thing influence him so much?

And how could they possibly think that just because he'd gone a little off the deep end that he, Spider-Man, would be capable of the kind of brutalities that Cletus Kasady inflicted on innocent people? He'd never even killed his enemies, let alone civilians. Doctor Connors had been taken to Ravencroft; Adrian Toomes had died of heart failure; and Otto Octavius had been entirely accidental.

 _But_ , said a sinister voice in his head, _you could have done more to save him._

Yes.

He could have. There had been more than enough time to remove the crane winch from the doctor's spinal cord.

 _And Max Dillon_ , he thought. Electro. He'd blown the charged bastard to a billion particles. He and Gwen hadn't set out to kill—it had simply been what had happened. But he should have been smarter, should have known what would happen to his foes in those instances, should have—

 _No._

The word rang defiant through his mind. The echo of it rippled throughout his bloodstream. He felt his heart beat quicken; his muscles began to ache. He felt the soreness slowly ebb into his joints. It wasn't a pleasant sensation at all, but the fact that feeling was gradually returning to his body made him capable of riding out the pain.

He'd gotten passed the point of blaming himself for the actions of his enemies. Electro had been hellbent on destroying New York City; Doc Ock had threatened everything Peter Parker had held dear. It wasn't his fault, and as for Cletus Kasady's current bloodthirsty vendetta, it wasn't as if Spider-Man had handed him the keys to the homes of innocent people.

He wasn't responsible for the evil of the world anymore than The Avengers were responsible for the alien invasion earlier that year.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, whatever tranquilizer Iron Man had stuck him with seeped through his pores. Mobility returned to him as the hours ticked by; and though he was grateful for the opportunity to move once more, it came with the drawback of his costume being drenched in sweat.

On legs that felt like rusting girders, Spider-Man got to his feet.

The compression lock hissed. The door opened, and a moment later, Katya stepped in, still wearing her dark sunglasses. It was impossible to tell whether or not she was surprised by his mobility, but Spider-Man took the fact that the agent had immediately tackled him as a good sign.

"Long time, no see," Spider-Man said, steadying himself with a hand on the steel sink.

Something like a smile quirked the corner of Katya's lips. Spider-Man frowned. The sight of the dark-haired agent's grin stirred something in his memory, as if he'd seen her somewhere before.

Clearing her throat, Katya said, her voice rich with an Eastern European purr, "About four hours."

Spider-Man's shoulders sagged. "Guess I'm not as good at flushing things out of my system as I thought."

"That was a Stark Industries-issued tranquilizer. No cake-walk. You might be able to do anything a spider can, but against Tony Stark you're fighting a losing battle."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Katya sighed, moving slightly away from the door. Spider-Man noted that the agent didn't bother to activate the compression locks.

"They want to take you to the interrogation room now. It's my job to come collect you."

"Do they always make you do the dangerous stuff?"

"I also get their Starbucks for them. It's what happens when you're a probationary agent."

"That's a long way to go for the nearest grande skinny caramel macchiato."

"I agree. We're thinking of installing a kiosk in the main lobby sometime around Halloween."

"Are you sure you don't want to give up on this agent business and become a YouTube comedian? You're a regular Jenna Marbles."

Katya smiled; they'd been drawing closer since she entered the cell, Spider-Man's strength returning with every step. Again, there was something in that cherry-lipped grin of hers that touched upon a sensation of familiarity. The web-slinger wanted nothing more than to slip her sunglasses off and get a look at her eyes, just to see if he really did know her.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. pays better," Katya all but whispered. Then she looked him up and down and said, "You're going to have to get out of that suit."

"Whoa. Slow down there. We haven't even gone out to dinner yet."

Again, Katya smiled. "I'm serious. They want you plain-clothed for interrogation. Either you take off that suit and change into the standard-issue S.H.I.E.L.D. incarceration clothes you'll find under your cot, or—

"Or what? You'll make me? I've heard worse threats."

"Don't flatter yourself, big boy. It won't be me doing the honors. Caleb and Marco, the big apes who brought you in, will have that luxury. And they'll be less gentle and much more _thorough_ if you get my drift."

Spider-Man sighed. "I guess that leaves me with no choice." He feinted right, and then fired a web at the ceiling. Katya snarled, and wheeled around, but the web-slinger was already half-way across the room. He plopped in front of the door, wrenched it open and promptly felt himself dragged back into his cell.

Katya wheeled him around and socked him in the nose. Not one to by stymied by such rudimentary pain, Spider-Man aimed a roundhouse kick at Katya's head, intending to knock her out.

With feline agility, the agent caught his ankle and threw him across the cell. He nearly collided with the wall, but managed to web himself to the ceiling. Crawling along it, he intended to make for the door again. Katya leapt through the air, far higher than was natural for even the most accomplished gymnast. She grabbed him by both wrists and fell to the ground. Half-way through the split-second fall, she flipped them over, and Spider-Man's back connected with the cold, hard concrete floor.

Before he could think to push Katya off of him, the agent seized both his wrists in her slender hands. There was a loud crack as both of Spider-Man's web-shooters splintered.

He stared at the agent in disbelief. Nobody knew that he carried his webbing in his wrists. Many people—civilian, hero and villain alike—simply assumed that Spider-Man produced his own webs naturally.

Katya sneered at him, her knees digging into his groin just enough to elicit a whimper.

"Bad form, Spider," she whispered.

"Who _are_ you?"

"None of your business. If you'd just behaved yourself you could have been spared a lot of indignity and maybe walked out of here with your webbing in tact."

"Guess you'll have to give me a decent time to recover my supplies. Fifteen minutes, tops. Refractory period and all that."

"Men don't run out of that kind of fluid," Katya said.

Spider-Man's eyes widened behind his mask. He'd heard that euphemistic turn-of-phrase before...

Katya grinned, but before either of them could utter another word—before Katya even had time to move herself away from the compromising position of half-straddling his body, the door banged open.

The two burly agents, Caleb and Marco, stood on the other side, both staring stonily down at them.

Katya stood, up brushing the front of her S.H.I.E.L.D. suit off.

"Just a little roll in the hay," she said casually. "I learned that from Natasha, believe it or not."

"They're waiting," one of the agents—Spider-Man really couldn't tell either of them apart—said curtly.

"He's not co-operating." Katya shot Spider-Man another superior smile. "I'm guessing this itsy-bitsy spider might actually crawl up that side of the water spout, if you get my drift. I'll leave you boys to it."

"Wait!" Spider-Man clambered to his feet. "I don't need a pat down."

Katya looked at him skeptically. "You're going to play nicely?"

"Do I have a choice in the matter?"

"Not with these two, you don't. They don't really like Tony Stark, so following his instructions in regards to your well-being and dignity isn't high priority."

Spider-Man glared at all three of them. He no longer cared who Katya was, or why she stirred that feeling of familiarity in him. They had him trapped—no webs and no way out. Now they were going to take the only thing he had left.

Katya inclined her head. Spider-Man saw the flash of dark brown eyes from over the top of the rim of her shades.

No. He didn't know her. He was just addled by the paralysis and his current predicament.

"If you're innocent," Katya said, "then your identity stays with us. We can't even tell the outsourced maintenance contractors what actually goes on inside the Triskelion, let alone go running our mouths about who we keep in here."

Spider-Man had no reason to trust her. Still, there was something in the borderline earnestness of her tone that set him slightly at ease. He had to co-operate if he had any hopes of getting out of here and getting back to the city.

"I have nothing to hide," he said. "At least not anymore."

His fingers shaking, he slowly inched his mask off of his sweat-shining face. Even though the feeling of clean air against his skin was a relief after so long trapped beneath the material of his mask, he still felt violated by the lack of choice he had in the matter.

Katya's breath caught slightly.

"Yeah," Peter said darkly. "Human. You were expecting a Chitauri?"

"After the Bronx, there's nothing that would surprise us," Katya said softly. She eyed Caleb and Marco, her lips thinning. "Are you sticking around for the peep show?"

One of the big apes rolled his eyes. "After him nearly getting the jump on you? Yes."

"I handled it."

"Barely."

Peter closed his eyes, his skin crawling. "My freedom and my dignity gone in less than five hours. Must be a Tuesday."

He found the gray sweat pants and sweater underneath the cot. Keeping his back to the agents, he stripped out of his costume. Katya let out an aggravated huff and strode across the room. Ignoring the protests of Caleb and Marco, she snatched the sheet off the bed and held it out, forming a makeshift curtain between their prisoner and the rest of the room.

"Gee, thanks a lot," Peter muttered. Fast as he could, he clambered out of his sweat-soaked civilian clothes and into the issued gray attire. There was no use in acting like a guilty man or getting the agents ire up after everything that had happened thus far.

 _Just play along_ , he thought. _Think about MJ and Eddie and Aunt May…_

Caleb—or it could have been Marco—moved forward and seized the fallen gravity bonds and slapped them onto Peter once more. Grimacing, Peter felt the sensation of tension between his extremities once more, only this time it wasn't as strong as it had been when they'd first taken him into the Triskelion.

He could, at the very least, move one foot in front of the other ever so slightly.

Katya, looking annoyed at how things had proceeded, stood back as Caleb and Marco flanked their prisoner and led him back into the hallway. Keeping his head down, Peter followed the trio of guards down the corridor. Once or twice someone banged on the walls of their cell. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask just who in the world S.H.I.E.L.D. kept locked in this place, but he thought better of it.

They would think he was trying to glean valuable information.

 _Don't look like the bad guy_ , he told himself as they entered the elevator once more. _Just co-operate and you'll get out of this in one piece_.

In silence, the four rode the lift through several stories. The floor they exited onto was brighter than the holding cells, which had been at the bottom of the base. Peter supposed they were several stories up, possibly even above fifteen floors.

Caleb, Marco and Katya led him down another corridor. Several agents passing through glanced at him, but made no remark.

Would they really keep his identity a secret? Or had he simply been stupid to trust them to keep their word?

The interrogation room looked just as cheerless as the cell, the exception being that the walls were white and the lights brighter. The absence of any two-way mirror made Peter feel somewhat disoriented—but then again, S.H.I.E.L.D. probably had better ways of listening in then mere visual and voyeurism.

Caleb and Marco plopped him bodily into steel-backed chair opposite a plain white desk. Then, to his relief, both of the burly agents left the room, leaving him alone with Katya.

But only for a moment.

The door opened once more, and both Melinda and Grant entered. Melinda had a tablet in her hand, and she looked, if anything, even more grimly determined than when they'd parted at the cell below. Grant stayed by the door opposite Katya; Melinda took a seat at the chair across from Peter. She propped the tablet up, scanned it for a moment, and quickly glanced his way.

"Peter Parker," she said. It was as if using his name had stolen something precious from him. His body tensed—this was impossible. Everything he'd worked so carefully to keep safe was now under threat both from Cletus Kasady framing him, and now from S.H.I.E.L.D. possibly knowing everything about his life.

Melinda seemed oblivious to Peter's visceral reaction to her uttering his name.

"Employee at Horizon Labs, former reporter for The Daily Bugle and…Spider-Man." Melinda glanced his way again. "What I don't fully understand—one of the many things I don't fully understand right now—is just _how_ you're Spider-Man."

A genuine curiosity overcame a face that seemed to have been carved into professional stoicism. Peter recognized something in that look—a sincere, unbiased need to understand.

 _Co-operate_ , a voice that sounded both like Gwen Stacy and Mary Jane said in his mind.

"I've been Spider-Man since the beginning of my senior year of high school," he said at last. "I was bitten by a spider that had been genetically altered with radioactive technology."

"Your father's technology," Melinda finished.

Peter frowned. "Yes. With Doctor Connors. How did you know that?"

Something sad passed over Melinda's face. "Research," she said evasively. "But we're not here to talk about me."

Peter glanced quickly at the two flanking agents; both were impassive, although Peter took note of how Katya's fingers were curled into fists.

"You've done a lot of good for New York City," Melinda went on. "Even before Mister Stark was established—even before S.H.I.E.L.D. formed The Avengers initiative. So what's with the change? Or is that headline true, and the black-suited Spider-Man was nothing more than an imposter?"

Peter stared at the desk. "It's not true," he whispered, hating himself for breaking through the protective lie that Eddie had spun for his benefit. "That was me. On the bridge, at the Baxter Building…all of it. Me."

"Why?"

"I was asked to go to the Baxter Building during the demonstration of the Quantum Gate," Peter explained. "When I was there, a bunch of mercenaries attacked and tried to steal something that was brought back from the other side. A space rock of some kind."

"Hydra," Melinda said. "They go back to World War 2. One of our primary concerns right now, as a matter of fact."

Quid pro quo. Melinda was offering him information in exchange for information.

"What were they doing at the Baxter Building?"

Melinda shrugged. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Grant's eyes narrow almost threateningly.

Ignoring the surly agent, Peter said, "Whatever was in that rock broke out when Thor's hammer hit it. The…being inside attached itself to me. It heightened every last emotion I felt and gave me a sort of power boost…it was like a steroid."

"Why did you leave Thor there?"

"Because I was pissed. The Avengers were just one of the many things in my life that had gone wrong. So I left him there like a kid throwing a hissy fit."

"What happened to this being?"

"It separated from me. Reed Richards and his team got most of it off of me, but the remainder came back for round two. I was able to escape from it, but I don't know where it went." He swallowed, sheer nerves making him say quickly, "I wouldn't have done any of that—what happened to those people in The Bronx and the other places—even if I had been bound to the symbiote."

Grant snorted. Melinda shot him an unimpressed look, and he sobered up immediately.

Turning back to her tablet, Melinda said, "We have several Avengers now who've vouched for you. Thor, even though not very happy to have been left paralyzed in the Baxter Building, still admitted that you saved his life from whatever venom Hydra gave him. You and Hawkeye worked together to round up the Ravencroft inmates. And now Iron Man says you saved his life. Some people…" Melinda glanced at Grant once more, "would go on the primary evidence. Webbing. Black webbing at the scenes of all these murders last night and this morning. Not to mention the spider insignia at the dormitory in Chelsea."

Peter winced. A dormitory. Cletus Kasady's bloodthirsty knew absolutely no bounds-young or old, he'd kill indiscriminately.

"But there's no concrete evidence to pin you at the scenes. There's also no concrete evidence that you _aren't_ responsible, either. Especially after what happened with this space thing, this…symbiote."

Melinda leaned forward. "If you have anyone who can corroborate your version of events aside from The Avengers about this entity that you say was responsible for your behavior, then we can keep you here under observational security. We won't be able to let you go, but you wouldn't be under suspicion."

"Has anything further happened in New York?"

Melinda's eyes narrowed. She considered Peter for a moment—again, that sadness came into her already haunted eyes.

"There are always things happening in New York City."

"So that means yes. And you want me to confess because you need more than just my word-you want to know about that space rock. About why these Hydra people wanted it."

Melinda almost grinned, as if Peter had lived up to some secret expectation of hers.

Still, there was nothing for it. He had nothing to hide, but he wasn't about to go pulling character references from anyone who knew about the symbiote. He'd die before putting MJ, Eddie and Aunt May in harm's way. And none of his colleagues at Horizon knew—not Darcy Lewis, not Betty Ross…

Peter sat up straighter, recalling that Doctor Ross had been the one who'd sent him to the Baxter Building in the first place…sent him there to meet…

"Reed Richards," Peter said. "And the Storm siblings and Ben Grimm. They were the ones who helped separate the symbiote from me the first time. They also have a piece of it in their care."

He may well have announced his discovery of the Philosopher's Stone. Melinda sat up straight, her eyes suddenly alight with interest.

"Grant, Katya, I need you both to confirm this. Get a hold of Reed Richards and find out what that thing is and how it relates to this. As for you," she turned to Peter, "we're going to keep you here under observation, just until we know for certain."

"Bully for me," Peter said coldly.

Then Melinda, Katya and Grant walked out of the interrogation room, once again leaving him alone with nothing but his thoughts and fears.

* * *

"You think he's telling the truth?" Grant said as he, Katya and Melinda hurried down the hall.

"That's what you're going to find out. I have to give a Coulson and Maria a briefing on this. They're already on my case enough for not letting them handle it. What with Cap and Natasha gallivanting around, they've got enough on their plates as it is."

Melinda left them at the elevators. Katya felt rather unhappy at the woman's disappearance—she'd been at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s headquarters for only a few months, gathering as much intel as she could for her boss, and so far Melinda May was one of about three people whose eyes she didn't want to scratch out.

Most unfortunately for the both of them, Grant Ward was not one of those people. Katya could barely stand the jerk on the best of days, not least of which because she didn't trust him farther than she could throw him.

He, however, was either oblivious to her despising him, or just enjoyed pushing her buttons.

"Y'know," he said as he and Katya continued down the many corridors of the tenth floor together, "my money is on May's friendship with that punk's father as the reason we don't have him under lock and key."

Katya made an interested noise in response, but said nothing. Of course, due to her boss's knowledge of S.H.I.E.L.D. and both generations of Parker men, this little piece of information was already something she was aware of. Grant, on the other hand, acted as if he'd let her in on a big secret.

"As far as I'm concerned, he's gone off the rails," Grant went on as they turned a corner and started down yet another long corridor. "Probably had the best of intentions when he started out, but then went ape when The Avengers showed up and took over his home turf. A little while back—it was a few months before the Chitauri, but some time after Cap was unthawed, I'm not entirely sure. Anyway, when this electric nutcase started siphoning power from The Big Apple, Spider-Man tried to take him down and this one young woman ended up caught in the middle. As far as I'm concerned, that radioactive runt probably offed her himself."

Katya prided herself on keeping her composure. It had slipped, certainly, upon Spider-Man being taken to the Triskelion, but still she'd tried to hold it on a tight leash.

Grant's words, however, proved to be the straw that broke the panther's back.

Nobody accused Peter Parker of murdering Gwen Stacy, least of all when it was something that had tormented him so often.

Snarling, Katya elbowed Grant in the ribs as hard as she could, gripped him by the side of his dark hair and bashed his temple into the corner of the wall before he even knew what was happening. His body slumped to the ground. Katya seized him by the back of the neck with one graceful hand, carried him to the nearest utility closet and shoved him inside. Once back in the hallway, she bent the door handle almost into a knot the better to keep the bastard trapped inside until she was in the clear.

Then she hurried at a brisk pace to the window at the end of the corridor. Katya slid the glass open, stepped over the ledge and, without any preamble, fell ten stories to the ground. She landed in a crouch, knees up to her chin. Impact would have killed an ordinary woman, but Katya was anything but ordinary.

Ignoring the wind and the rain, she walked down the long road that led from the front of the imposing headquarters towards the civilian highway. She tapped a hidden button on the side of her sunglasses.

Everything about her outward appearance save the shades flickered like a broken stretch of old film. The visage that was dark-haired, olive-skinned Katya turned to a slight, slender, fair-haired young woman with a shock of hair as white as snow and a the gait of a stalking cat.

Pulling the glasses from her face and tossing them into the river, Felicia Hardy tapped the commlink affixed inside her ear.

A moment later, a familiar voice said, "What's new pussycat? And this better be something more than just having accidentally seen Thor in the showers again."

"Thank you for bringing that up. And trust me-it is."

"Wait, was it Black Widow? Were you both in there at the same time?"

"No, perv." Felicia didn't break her stride as she reached the end of the drive. Already she could hear the distant alarms from the building behind her. Reaching into the pocket of her own black leather suit, she withdrew a small remote control. The small tub of shrubs nearest the highway shimmered as the camo-hologram that protected her motorcycle from prying eyes appeared in its stead.

"Damn."

"We have a serious problem on our hands."

A little over one hundred miles away, Harry Osborn listened to the briefing from Felicia, his heart sinking. When his beautiful little double agent had finished recounting her tale, Harry sighed.

"That does sound serious," he said. "I thought we agreed that you'd only sniff out trouble, not get caught chasing after it. You might have to become an indoor cat again if this keeps up."

Over the roar of Felicia's engine and the rush of slipstreaming air, she replied, "It's not like I asked Mister Eight Legs to come dropping in unexpectedly! I had to twist May's arm just to let me in on the briefing. What should we do, Harry?"

Harry sighed again. This was, when he back-tracked through the various decision trees, his fault. He'd funded Reed Richards' research into the Quantum Gate; the thing that had subsumed Peter Parker had come out of that little science project and now it had landed Peter in hot water.

Still, being underground didn't mean that Harry had given up all the luxuries of life. "Good thing I've been keeping my glider polished."

"Jailbreak?" Felicia asked, and he could practically see her smiling.

"You know it. Sit tight, kitten. I'll be there in a jiffy."


	16. Emergence

Stress only tended to become unmanageable for Mary Jane when she felt she didn't have any other option. Being trapped brought out a beast in her the likes of which could raze a person to nothing but bones and marrow if she really let loose. So, given her present circumstances, by the time morning rolled into afternoon, she was about ready to spit scrap iron.

For what was thirtieth time that day, she tried Peter's cellphone, only to get the answering service. Too overwrought to leave yet another frantic message, MJ simply swore and threw her iPhone across the living room. It connected with a table lamp, which cracked and fell to the ground with a shatter of glass.

As much as she tried to deny it, the worst of her genetics came out under such circumstances. Her father had been a notorious destroyer of personal property whenever he went into one of his towering rages, and Mary Jane had found herself the unfortunate inheritor of it.

Feeling as if she could truly tear her own skin off, she threw on a wool cardigan and a hat and stormed out of the house.

A stiff, cold wind blew through Queens, and as Mary Jane marched down the sidewalk, rain began to splatter the pavement. Her mind, ever in a constant state of stormy flux, was laser-focused on one need and one need only—to anesthetize the growing dread and confusion and helplessness. With no way to figure out where Peter was or what had happened to him—with Eddie in the hospital and her childhood dream swirling down the drain—she needed some way to feel control.

To MJ, that control came in the form of a pack of _Lucky Strikes_ purchased from the convenience store down the street and around the corner. She hadn't had a cigarette since after New Year's—her role as Eponine had demanded she keep her voice in check, and in any case, she'd started growing out of the habit. As Eponine was now a thing of the past, she found herself not remotely caring about the consequences. And when she saw the cashier watching the latest news report of murders and chaos on his iPad, it was enough to drive Mary Jane to light up as soon as she stepped out into the chilly afternoon.

She wanted to fall to pieces more than anything, and she truly felt on the verge of it. But without any word from Peter, with Eddie out of commission and with almost all the ties she thought she had severed, she knew that it was down to her to keep her head on straight. Inhaling on her cigarette as she hurried back towards her house, she sorted through the tumult of her thoughts, and deciphered one key conclusion—if she didn't know how to find Peter, she would just have to settle for the one person she knew she could help at the moment: Eddie.

MJ's had surprised herself with the limits of her own patience and understanding of Eddie's turbulence since Christmas Eve. As the daughter of a man who frequently abused alcohol among other things, she'd expected herself to turn tail at the first sign of Eddie's succumbing to the disease. The singular thing that had stayed her retreat was the fact that, unlike her dearly incarcerated dad, she loved Eddie Brock.

Peter loved him too, although Mary Jane was quite certain that her hero didn't quite see it the way she and Eddie both did. Theirs was a special kind of bond, a veritable Arthur and Lancelot without the negative influence of an indecisive Guinevere. Mary Jane certainly didn't consider herself the parson of queenly virtue—she'd have taken Merlin if the choice was presented, albeit a Merlin caught in the grips of a fiery love with her own king and his chief knight.

But now both those noble, breakable champions were felled, although as she hurried back towards hers and Peter's home, she made herself think of Peter as being merely missing in action. There was nothing to be done but do everything in her power to weave some Mary Jane Watson level magic alone and unaided.

Well, not entirely alone.

As she let a stream of toxic smoke spiral through the rainy air, she happened to glance at the house next door. Rio, in the process of doing the dishes, was staring at her through the kitchen window, expression borderline disapproving. Giving a guilty smile, MJ hurried inside, stamped out her cancer stick, and leaned against the door. She counted to forty before the knocks came, sharp and insistent as the woman giving them.

She opened the door, and sure as Hell was hot, Rio stood on the stoop, a sweater around her narrow shoulders. The pressing clouds were as nothing compared to the thundering stare Rio pinned Mary Jane with as she all but marched over the threshold.

"Oh, no, please come in out of the rain," MJ said sardonically. "Let me take your coat."

"So cute. Did you learn that in acting class." Rio's eyes bored into MJ. "You wanna tell me what was with the _Lucky Strike_?"

"Yes, I was inhaling noxious carcinogens as a way of handling the fact that my career is dead, my best friend is in the hospital again, and my boyfriend is currently-" MJ stopped herself; Rio didn't need to know the specifics of what had happened to Peter.

But being the mother of a teenaged son prone to hiding things, Rio wasn't fooled for a second. "Currently what, MJ?"

"Currently unavailable," MJ muttered. "I'm sorry for the smoking-

"Are you? That's great! Now fork 'em over." Rio held her hand out. More grudgingly than she cared to admit, Mary Jane reached into her jacket pocket and produced the _Lucky Strikes_. Rio all but snatched them, and stormed into the kitchen. A moment later, MJ heard the droning whir of the garbage disposal shredding the cigarettes to bits.

"I don't pretend to know what in the name of God's green is happening to the world," Rio said as she returned from destroying twelve dollars worth of rolled nicotine; "way I see it, you're still alive and breathing; Eddie's not dead yet and unless Peter's in a gutter, he's kicking too. You ain't the kind of girl to stand around and lose your shit when it hits the fan, Little Miss Red."

MJ's nostrils flared. "Thanks a lot. Well you're at it, why don't you tell me how much dishonor I'm bringing on Gloria Steinem and other notable women?"

"Is that what I said?" Rio snapped. "Call me concerned, Red, but I don't like seeing my friends going through a spiral. You don't have to be jack all, but you standing around having an episode because things are all chaos and tears right now has nothing to do with you having lady parts. It's got everything to do with you being Mary Jane Watson. Last time I checked you were the kind to knee a dude in the balls and pick a problem to the bones before you let it turn you into a chain smoking mess."

"It's hard!" MJ stormed, raking her fingers through her hair and turning it into a mess of chunks and tangles.

"Yes," Rio said softly but decidedly. "It is. But that's not a good enough reason to call half-time. I feel those boots pressing on my neck every goddamn day, Mary Jane. If it ain't working in food service in one of the worst cities in the world for drunks and perverts, it's raising a kid on my own. Everyone from the PTA to the police takes a look at my single mother, black, female, lower class ass and what do you suppose they think? 'Hey let's cut the chick a break?' No." Rio's gaze softened. "I'm not trying to say that what's happening to you right now isn't fifty shades of suck, or that my problems are better."

"Then what are you trying to say?" MJ tried to hold back the catch in her voice, but it was impossible.

"That you are Mary Jane freaking Watson and you are more than capable of juggling all this shit _and_ taking home the Miss America crown." She smiled. "You got this, baby girl. We both got this. So whatever it is, just do what you always do—mace its eyes and kick it in the ballsack."

MJ deflated. "Why can't you ever just let me fall to pieces," she said, wiping her eyes on the back of her knuckles. She sighed, found herself among the hurricane that had threatened to drown her out, and said, "I was going to visit Eddie. See what was up or just, y'know, be there."

Rio nodded. "Sounds like a way to spend an afternoon. I'll grab Miles. He needs human contact. Boy's been stuck to his computer all day having a freak out because of all that crap about Spider-Man being a spree killer."

Mary Jane's hands shook. "He doesn't believe that does he?"

Rio snorted as she headed for the door. "Are you kidding me? Captain Tights could rob Fort Knox and Miles would still find a way to prove him innocent. I don't know whether to be pleased that he's a forgiving person or terrified of it."

"Pleased," MJ said under her breath.

They cabbed it to the hospital, MJ and Rio splitting the difference. Evidently Rio hadn't been impressed with the free front row tickets she and Miles had been given for the opening of _Les Miserables_. Miles stared out the window during the ride over, his young face far too concerned for Mary Jane's peace of mind. She half imagined Spider Man swinging across the Hudson and landing on the window of the back seat she shared with Miles, giving the poor kid a salute and then swinging away. But there was no sign of him—just the continued downpour of rain and the sight of police choppers.

They barely made it into Manhattan. The threat of Cletus Kasady or Spider-Man had resulted in more roadblocks than usual; by the time their cabbie pulled up to the curb, Rio was cursing a storm, Miles was cracking his knuckles in agitation and Mary Jane was jonesing for another cigarette.

When the nurses at triage saw Mary Jane, they went slightly pale and showed her, Rio and Miles into visiting without a word.

"Celebrity status?" Miles mused as he followed MJ and his mother down the sterile-smelling corridor?

"Fear of God," MJ replied, feeling slightly content for the first time in hours. The sight of the armed guards patrolling the hallways, however, prevented her from being too happy.

She checked her phone one more time before they entered Eddie's room.

Still no return messages.

 _Don't panic_ , she thought. _Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic..._

The sight of the other visitor sitting next to Eddie's bed drove all thoughts of worry from her head for a moment. Aunt May stared at the trio in surprise for a moment; then she was off her seat and hugging everyone, MJ especially.

"Great minds think alike," she said. "I've been so worried about Peter. I just had to get out and do something."

Miles frowned. "Hey, where is Pete anyway?"

MJ and Aunt May glanced at one another quickly. "He's just, ah, at Horizon," Mary Jane said hastily. Perhaps if she spoke it, it would miraculously come true. "There was an important breakthrough and they called him in."

"Oh." Miles sat down on one of the visitor's chairs. "Then why isn't he texting me back? He usually does even if he's at work."

"Miles," Rio said, "give it a rest. I'm sure Peter's going to come swinging in before long."

Mary Jane offered Miles a smile that she hoped was supportive. "Aunt May," she said, choosing her words carefully, "did you hear anything about that spider infestation in your basement?"

Aunt May scarcely changed her expression. "No. Only that it's not as bad as they say it is."

Her hopes dashed, MJ sat in one of the chairs next to Eddie's bed. His heart monitor registered a steady fifty beats per minute; all his vitals appeared normal. But his skin was still plaid, his veins looking black as coal. His eyelids looked too thin, and the black of the veins around and under them gave the impression of fine spider webs.

MJ sighed, and grasped Eddie's hand. This was far worse than his time in the hospital after Cletus Kasady's attack. No one knew what was wrong with him, and there was no telling if they ever would. Suppose he was in this coma for too long? She and Peter—because Peter _was_ coming back—would have to stand by and watch Eddie sink further and further away until the inevitable choice came.

"Hey, Red." Miles said softly from beside her. MJ turned, furious at herself for the tears that gathered in her eyes. "He's going to be okay, okay?"

"You and your mother," MJ said softly. "Always with the positive reaffirmations."

"I raised him well," Rio said proudly.

It was now late afternoon. Rain continued to pour over New York City with a vengeance. Early darkness brought on by thick cloud cover eclipsed what would have been lengthy daylight. Still, Eddie's heart monitor continued to blip steadily; the clock on the wall ticked on, and no word came from Peter or the news or the nurses. Mary Jane, Rio, Miles and Aunt May waited and waited, each lost in an infinite black hole of worries and thoughts and solutions.

At nearly six thirty, when the rain and clouds were so thick that the streetlights were forced to flicker on early, one among their number finally broke. Aunt May got to her feet, glaring at the door out to the corridor.

"Call this place a hospital," she muttered darkly. "Three damn hours and there hasn't been a nurse in sight. Triage better be prepared to answer some questions." She marched out of the room before Mary Jane, Rio or Miles could utter so much as a peep.

"Tenacious as the dickens," Mary Jane remarked. "Peter's got a lot of her fire when he gets going. Especially when it comes to _Magic the Gathering_ and old Roger Corman films." He was such a complete geek, and while MJ hesitated to say that it was what she loved about him—there were a great many reasons why she loved Peter—she was completely head over heels with how he was unabashedly himself; how he owned who he was in every aspect.

Her eyes burned once more. She buried her face in her hands and began to shake with suppressed sobs. Anything could have happened to him in the aftermath of the NYPD chasing him from Hell's Kitchen.

She felt a gentle but steady hand on her shoulder; recognized the sweet spice of Rio's favorite perfume.

"Hey, Big Red. When did you have something to eat last?"

"Sometime between the _Early Show_ and the _Today Show_ ," MJ mumbled.

"I'm going to grab you some crappy hospital food. Might make you feel a little more glued together. You coming baby?"

"Yeah. I gotta use the john anyway."

They were giving her space when she needed it most—when her entire skin felt blistered with a sensitive sunburn. Mary Jane looked at Rio and Miles through her damnably streaming eyes.

"I sort of love you sometimes, Rio," she said.

"Damn right you do."

She and Miles exited the room. MJ was left mercifully alone with Eddie and the machines keeping him alive. Even though there would still be pieces of her life left if the worst ever happened, losing Peter and Eddie would shake away the foundations she'd only just started rebuilding. Whatever happened afterwards would be devastating beyond measure. She'd had everything torn away from her so many times that one more tornado wind would be the death of her.

She gripped Eddie's hand all the more tightly. Her voice shook with a maelstrom of fear, helplessness and rage as she spoke to Eddie, wherever he was now.

"You're going to get up right now. And that is not a suggestion. Do you hear me Eddie Brock? You are not going to do this to me—you're not going to do this to _him_. I have seen you lift and flip a tractor tire across a goddamn football field without passing out, so don't think for a second that I buy you getting your ass kicked by whatever the hell this is."

Alone, unashamed, she let herself cry.

"Please. You mean too damn much to me. Too much to Peter...please come back..."

He didn't move; didn't twitch; didn't give any indication that he'd heard MJ's pleading.

His heart monitor continued a steady drum of rhythm, drilling a toneless pattern into MJ's brain.

Then the steady beeping spiked. MJ felt her own heart skip a beat. A split second later and a loud groan filled the room. The lights died with a pathetic whine of electricity. The back up generator kicked in, bathing the room in the glow of blue emergency lights. Eddie's BPM machine continued to spike; his heart was going haywire, but he lay quite still.

Blinded by a panic she could not help, MJ let go of Eddie's hand and all but tripped over herself in getting to the door. She pulled at it, but then stopped when she noticed a slight shift of movement from the corner of her eye.

Slowly, she turned, pressed against the door as Eddie rose. His skin's pallid flush was receding, but a cold sweat had broken out over his body. He looked through half-open eyes around the room. Upon noticing the tubes sticking out of him, he frantically pulled at every last apparatus he could reach.

"Wait," MJ croaked, walking in shaking legs towards him. "Eddie, don't-

But he didn't hear her; he didn't even seem aware of her presence. His movements became more frenzied; his breaths were loud, rumbling gasps that sounded like the laboured panting of a large bear.

He got to his feet, unsteady and confused. He didn't collapse, didn't appear in pain from his severed sciatica. It had been so long since he'd moved on his own; this should have been a miracle, but there was something in his jerky, unsteady movements that horrified Mary Jane—as if his limbs were being moved from some internal force.

MJ made to move toward him once more, terrified at what could be happening now.

Eddie clutched at his stomach with sudden violence, as if something had kicked him from inside his own guts.

"Oh shit! Eddie stay with me, okay? I'll get help."

MJ slammed her hand on the emergency button, but she wasn't sure it was even functioning with the power being on auxiliary function.

"Come on," she said, "come on, come on!"

Eddie let out a sucking gasp, his mouth stretching wide as if to scream. Before Mary Jane's horrified eyes, Eddie sank to the floor in all fours, his body heaving as he retched with violent spasms. MJ hurried towards him, crouching down and trying to offer him some kind of reassurance.

Without warning, a geyser of pitch-black liquid expelled itself from Eddie's mouth.

Mary Jane screamed, and scrambled back against the wall in horrified dismay, not knowing what to do, praying that this would end soon; that somebody would come to help.

Eddie retched and retched, the mass of black liquid spreading onto the floor around him. When it seemed as if Eddie could give no more of the viscous ooze, he shuddered, hands and knees in the mass of whatever it was that he'd spewed forth.

Then the obsidian slime seeped upwards, crawling over his body like a living shroud.

Eddie did not move, did not scream—he simply crouched there and let it take him over, and as Mary Jane watched, curled against the wall, she remembered what had happened that night at hers and Peter's home—the thing that had subsumed Peter's body and then his costume.

The blackness crept over Eddie's body until it covered him from head to toe. It rippled and bulged, turning his already broad and strong body into a veritable tank of black muscle and skin.

Eddie looked up, his face at first obscured by the dark substance.

Then two immense slits either side of his face opened. Eyes as white as bone and alien shaped stared at Mary Jane. Slowly, a mouth filled with sharp long, teeth widened in a terrible rictus of a smile.

It was only then that Mary Jane began to scream.

* * *

Miles had known his father—known the man to be a womanizing, gambling, pathetic piece of scum. Jefferson Morales had tried hard to make something of himself, but had gotten so beaten down by his failures that he'd eventually done the most selfish thing possible and abandoned his wife and son without any word or warning.

Miles had taken on the mantle as man of the house and also been searching desperately for any solid male role models. He'd only known Peter Parker since January, when he and Mary Jane had moved in next-door; he'd only known Eddie Brock when he'd been released form hospital some weeks later. Yet, despite Eddie's drinking and Peter's habit of limping back into his house at odd hours, Miles had come to view the two men as his friends.

Now, with Eddie lying near death and no sight or sign of Peter, Miles was beyond worry.

After leaving Eddie's room, Miles did what most kids his age did when they felt helpless or agitated—he grabbed his smartphone from his pants pocket and started scoping the Internet.

"Better make that fast," his mother said. "I don't want you racking up any extra data."

"I won't."

Social media and the vast sea of information on the Internet, were ways of proving to Miles that world was still turning somehow. After the Battle of the Bronx, he'd nearly lost his mind when he and Mama had been without Internet or data for several days. Not because he was addicted, but because he needed to know—needed to make sure that people were okay and that the world was, while still deeply flawed, spinning around.

Now, it was the perfect lifeline, albeit one that did not yield encouraging results.

"Everyone still thinks it was Spider-Man," Miles said as he and Mama took the left in the corridor leading towards the elevators. "It's not fair."

"I know, baby. But you know the answer to that one."

"Yeah, yeah."

Life wasn't fair. It was the mantra Rio Morales lived her life by, and one that Miles tried hard to shirk. Certainly life wasn't _easy_ , but that didn't mean that hardship was the natural order of things. The way Miles saw it, people were meant to be content—to be safe and allowed to hope for the future. But his mother, with all she'd had to survive and live through, never allowed that kind of optimism.

He trailed Mama to the commissary where terrible hospital food was being sold by a bored looking attendant.

"You want anything?"

Miles shook his head as he walked towards the john. "Nah, I'm good, Mama. Stuff tastes like packing peanuts anyway."

Mama scoffed, the way she always did when Miles incited her to laugh against her better judgment. "I'll be back in Eddie's room if I'm not here when you're done."

"Sure thing."

Miles found the guards patrolling the corridors of the hospital to be just another reminder of Spider-Man's recent frame-up. There were more freaks in New York City than anywhere else on the planet—add to that the aliens fought by The Avengers earlier that year, and Miles was surprised The Big Apple still even stood. Why blame it on the one hero who'd been there before Iron Man had come swooping along and grabbing press attention?

Spider-Man never asked anything from people—never needed to be seen as some kind of titan of justice. He just was: he did his thing and was as humble as they came for it, and for that reason, Miles loved the web-slinging hero like the father he'd never had. Seeing him castigated for murders that were obviously the fault of the escaped Cletus Kasady was too much for Miles to stand sitting around doing nothing over.

But what was he? A lower class kid from Queens with no skills to speak of. He could talk to his friends, post on forums and Tweet like his life depended on it about what he thought, and nobody would pay him any mind.

Miles used the empty john, and was washing his hands when the lights flickered, and then died. For a moment, the bathroom was plunged into darkness, and Miles briefly considered playing a quick game of Bloody Mary, just to shake off his nerves. Then, the auxiliary power outfitted in the hospital groaned to life; a dimmer set of lights switched on, and Miles found himself staring at his thoroughly unimpressed reflection.

Sighing, he dried off, and once more reached for the familiar font of information that was his cell phone.

The halls beyond the bathroom were a frenzy of confused and irritated voices—Electro's attack several years prior had resulted in a complete revamp of procedures and protections for major buildings like hospitals and government offices and schools. Miles wasn't in the least bit worried over the slight dimness; he was more concerned about how many patients might now be in worse condition thanks to the brief interlude between the power going out and the back-up kicking in.

Grimacing, he hurried passed security guards, doctors and nurses and went through Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. No updates to speak of. No further gruesome deaths in the city.

He sent Ganke a quick text—the lucky guy had left New York to visit family in New Hampshire and was well away from danger and chaos. Then, out of habit, he quickly checked Twitter once more. Still no word, just more people arguing about Spider-Man's alleged culpability.

Miles cursed under his breath. He couldn't stand this helpless feeling. Couldn't stand the noise and confusion and the tight space of the busy hospital hallways.

He hurried away from the corridor leading back to the elevator—he wanted some peace and quiet, something away from the long, slow, suffering of Eddie Brock and the disappearance of Peter Parker. He needed to breathe, needed to think.

He found his sanctuary in the deserted cafeteria on the ground floor. The auxiliary lights were out in several places; all the chairs had been upturned on the plastic tables. Not even so much as a custodian was sweeping the floor.

Solitude.

Miles breathed a sigh of relief.

His phone vibrated.

A return text from Ganke: _dude, it sounds crazy in NYC right now. You all good?_

 _Fine. Just visiting a friend at the hospital. Shits locked down tighter than a drum right now._ Not to mention it was currently dim as all get out in the deserted cafeteria.

 _Aw geez, what'd you do, MM?_ Ganke replied, adding a winking emoji for effect.

 _I got busted for starting some Walter White levels of a meth lab in the maternity ward._

Miles laughed to himself. One thing he and Ganke could count on each other for was making the other feel better by saying the dumbest crap imaginable. Mama had been privy to some of their conversations and had been both amused and slightly bewildered by their combination of well-meant personal barbs and pop culture references.

But Ganke understood him, and Miles wasn't young enough to not appreciate how rare that was in a human being.

His feet moved him to one of the chairs in the middle of the cafeteria. He wanted to be comfortable, now that he was out of the hubbub of the hospital staff. He and Ganke could carry on for hours if they weren't careful.

 _As you're in a hospital, I'm sure there's tons of lye you can use for dissolving bodies_ , Ganke said.

 _Bad time to mention that I'm sort of alone in a dark space._

 _Don't sweat it, MM. They'll be lifting the lockdown of NYC soon._

Miles frowned. _How do you know that? You sleeping with a police officer or something?_

 _Yes, that's why I can afford this vacation. News just broke like a few minutes ago, dude. They found this bum passed out by the I-95. Face was all smashed up and everything._

Something scuffed from the opposite end of the cafeteria. Miles barely spared a passing glance at the darkness as he typed, _So?,_ in response to Ganke's text.

 _Dude, it's that Kasady bastard. They stitched him up after he came out of a coma and found out he'd been hitching to the Canadian border after that escape the other day. He was passed out for like nine hours on the highway._

Miles felt his fingers go cold.

There was no way in hell Cletus Kasady could have been responsible for the grisly murders that had started the previous night. If what Ganke said was true, Kasady had been out of New York City since making his escape the day the armored car had been hijacked.

Spider-Man was innocent, but that meant that someone else had been copying Kasady's MO and trying to frame the wall-crawler…

A sharp, sudden grinding of metal against linoleum made Miles start and drop his phone. His skin prickled with the horrible feeling of someone watching him, someone lingering in the darkest part of the empty cafeteria. He felt completely stupid for having come down here alone.

He peered into the darkness as he tried to walk backwards on legs that felt like wet noodles.

A voice that sounded like many—a voice that was both sensual and terrifying, said in a pleasant sigh, "All alone in the darkness. I know how that feels."

Miles swallowed down his fear as he saw something indistinct move in the shadows.

The voice sighed again. "Oh, I adore children."

Any and all thought of him being a teenager with a good head on his shoulders flew out the window. At that moment, Miles just wanted safety. He turned and made a break for the hall leading to staircase access.

Something caught him around the legs, something that felt cold and mobile and liquid all it once. It was heavy, grasping, and terrible and it pulled him away from his only bid for freedom.

He screamed, hoping that someone, anyone, would come with a cavalry in tow.

The exit slipped away; Miles grabbed at the tables, but they weren't affixed to the floor, and he accomplished nothing but knocking them over. He was pulled into darkness and the next second something wrenched him off the floor.

He stared upside down as something emerged from the darkness—something made of shadows and blood, with a horrible grin and wide, white eyes. It's body was perfectly smooth, and distinctly feminine.

Miles struggled, tears coming to his eyes. He screamed and screamed for his mother, needing her there, needing her to make this right.

The creature only laughed at his pleas. "Mama?" She repeated mockingly as she pulled him closer to a wide, black mouth. " _I'm your mother now_!"

 **A/N: Whether good or bad, please drop a review and let me know your thoughts!**


	17. Para Bellum

Harry Osborn had gotten used to the cliche that life was a balancing game of good and bad. Not that he was over the moon about it-if he had his way, he would be able to pull the strings in his life and the lives of the people he cared abou. But after his stint in Ravencroft and his time on the run, he'd learned how to eat humble pie and ask for a scoop of understanding ice cream on the side.

For example, losing a friend to his own brief dance with revenge-fueled madness fell into the category of "Bad Crap"; having himself cured by said friend and burying the hatchet was "Good Crap". Going in the lam and being reunited with the woman he loved? That, as far as he was concerned, defied categorizing.

Harry had his gear ready to go ten minutes after his call with Felicia. Breathable fatigues, goggles, guns and a sack of his trusty pumpkin bombs were all equipped, taken from the weaponry in the condemned loft he and Felicia had flipped into home base. It was a darker and far more industrial than Harry was used to, with a breathtaking view of downtown Washington DC; it was also something approaching a home, with as many domestic touches as he and Felicia had been able to procure.

But before he took to the rainy skies, he had one more hand to play. He'd learned, among all his other lessons, that it was never enough to have an ace up your sleeve when the chips were down-you had to have an ace and a spare face card.

When Felicia had volunteered to spy on S.H.I.E.L.D. after the Chitauri invasion, Harry had immediately tasked her with setting up several discreet bugs-things even the super intelligence of the agency wouldn't be able to filter. The odd spam e-mail, a meme JPEG here and there: all innocent, and all the perfect masquerades for false viruses. It was only when the red flags were raised that recent recruit Katya would utilize her ostensible years doing IT work for Russian-American relations and stamp out the Trojan, and at the same time install the real thorn in S.H.I.E.L.D's foot. Surveillance, data transfer...and a program designed to bring the agency to its knobbly knees if ever occasion called for it.

Harry input every necessary code and command from behind his mini-computer fortress. He watched the row of monitors wired into S.H.I.E.L.D's security system. Panic broke like a tsunami wave over the dozens and dozens of agents manning central control. Already on edge from the disappearance of Agent Katya, they worked themselves into a frenzy as their entire operating system stalled and then crashed. A quick scan of the bridge and vehicle hangars showed him all the super-grade trucks and automobiles stalled.

"State of the art security," Harry muttered derisively. "That's what you get for having cars with computers in them." At the very least, he'd left the prison block in tact. No sense in letting actually guilty persons walk free just because he wanted to free one innocent among them.

Satisfied, Harry strode through the living room, passed the moth eaten and worn down sofa he'd dragged in from the street his first night here. He and Felicia had covered it with blankets and throw cushions until it looked barely recognizable. They'd also broken it in days after Felicia had come back to him, and it had only seen more action since.

Harry glanced at a cork board where his meticulous plans and notes were pinned alongside dozens and dozens wallet-sized Polaroids of him, Felicia, and the two of them together.

She'd kept him sane, when the obsession of being an underground operation had almost overwhelmed him. What was more, _she_ had come back to _him_.

"I feel safer when you're in plain sight," she'd said, too teasingly to have been a hundred per cent honest. Harry was too thankful for these last months of happiness and progress to question Felicia's motives-she was here, she was helping him and he loved her for it.

He threw a military grade windbreaker around himself as he made for the concrete steps leading to roof access. The front of the durable material had been cut away, so that it served more as a cowl and cape than anything. The material was a faded blend of desert sand camouflage-all bleeding oranges and whites and beiges. Coupled with his dark fatigues and the goggles and mask over his eyes and face, he would have looked ridiculous had the coloring been more pronounced.

"Not really a goblin," he'd told Felicia when he'd first finished the look. "More like an elf or something like that."

"Hobgoblin," Felicia had said with a smirk. She'd been nose deep in George MacDonald book; Harry supposed the subject had been fresh in her mind that day.

It wasn't exactly a title he disapproved of. Just because the goblin wasn't a part of his blood anymore didn't mean that his actions weren't still integrated into Harry's being.

He threw the hood over his head and pressed a button on the side of his goggles. A combination of thermal and night vision helped him see through the pouring rain and early darkness as he hurried towards what at first glance looked like a rooftop greenhouse. Much the same as he'd installed Felicia's favorite hog with cloaking device-technology he'd hacked from the shoddily encrypted files of Stark Industries-the greenhouse was merely a cover for his glider.

Sleek black and jagged, it was the one thing he'd taken with him after the battle against Doctor Octavius the previous Christmas. He'd fixed it up as best he could, given it some touch ups and the he'd let it sit until quite recently. Something about embracing this new identity hadn't sat right with Harry-there was a finality to it, and after all he'd been through-all the fighting and the struggling and the self-discovery, being any kind of goblin hadn't been a pleasant choice.

But he needed it tonight. Needed it to fix yet another mistake.

He activated the glider's remote operation. It rose with a jet of purple light and steam. Harry hopped onto the middle; the restraints closed over his feet; quick as a thought he was off, soaring through the rainy night in the direction of the Potomac.

He felt his commlink crackle to life.

"Where you at, kitty cat?"

"Mmm, you know I love it when you go all Dr. Seuss on me."

Harry heard the growl of Felicia's bike.

"I'm hoofing it to NYC as fast as my pretty little paws can carry me," Felicia added. "You sure you can handle a breakout by yourself?"

Harry did a complete upsidedown feint to avoid a construction crane. It was unnecessary showboating, but he needed the thrill-the moment of irresponsibility-in the face of what he was about to do.

"With both hands," Harry replied.

"Just hope it isn't by the skin of your teeth as well. They'll have found Grant by now-not that anyone's going to care. You'll be lucky to get through security."

"Pete's on what floor again?"

"Tenth. And there aren't any windows. Not that that's going to stop my big, sexy, smarty pants."

"Careful, kitten. I don't want to get pulled over for distracted driving. I was in the slammer once before. Not really keen on doing an encore."

Felicia let out a husky gasp of mock surprise. "Ooh, you mean I'm sleeping with an ex-con? How exciting."

Harry laughed. DC was fast disappearing behind him, opening up to thick forests and fields. At top speed, his glider was eating up the miles. He'd be at the Triskelion in twenty minutes tops.

"Hey, funny cat. Be careful, yeah? If Peter was being honest-

"Since when have any of us ever known him to be anything other than that?"

"Well, he did steal my Tamagotchi in grade school and said that a crow flew off with it."

"You're pulling my tail. Really?"

"Completely. But seriously, Felicia. Be on your guard, yeah?"

"Don't worry, honey. I've tangled with some nasties before."

"These are aliens, kitten. Not like the Chitauri. No heroics. No pursuit. Just get to the Baxter Building, grab the sample from Reed Richards and hoof it out of there."

Felicia laughed, all reckless abandonment. "And the people you're going to see aren't just prison guards. They're S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents. So no anti-heroics, no engaging. Just get to the Triskelion, grab Peter, and zoom out of there. Get me?"

Harry chuckled. "And then some. I'll be in silence until grab him."

"Yeah yeah. Perimeter is going to be rigged for any outside interference." Felicia sighed. "Poor bastards. They go months with dear little Katya in their midst and she goes and bites them on the hand. They'll probably be pulling out Evangelion mechs next."

"You been watching my anime, kitty cat?"

"Yes I have. It's the pretty shonen boys. They make me feel funny things." Felicia's Harley gave a particularly aggressive rev. Harry could just imagine her tearing down the interstate, weaving through traffic as she tore up the concrete. "Holler at you later, Harry."

"Love you, kitten."

The communication went dead.

Harry was soaring above tall pine trees, the lights of a nearby township painting an orange-pink glow in the dark sky.

He'd be at the Triskelion in next to no time. Once there, it would be the quickest in and out he'd ever arranged. He'd pontificated a sneakier solution-some kind of subterfuge to sneak by S.H.I.E.L.D. But time was of the essence; he couldn't let Peter rot away, not when his loved ones were in danger in the lockdown stronghold of New York City.

Not when this whole debacle was Harry's fault.

He hadn't thought things would come to this when he'd funded Reed Richards' scientific research. Like everything Harry Osborn had ever attempted to do, it had started with the cliched of best intentions, and paved a highway to Hell complete with merging lanes and freshly painted traffic lines. And once again, Peter Parker had gotten caught in the crossfire.

This time, Harry wasn't going to let Peter swing in and try to fix another person's mess. Not when he was already in deep as it is was.

A navigation system alerted Harry several seconds before he cleared the airspace over the town near the Potomac. In this neck of the woods, where military and government lived almost on top of one another, security was tight as an oil drum; Harry had counted on that when he'd set up shop in DC, and so had outfitted himself, his base of operations and all his equipment with countermeasures.

A shift of his foot, and the glider cloaked itself, actively camouflaged against the changing scenery.

Directly approaching this way would be best. A quick barrage, a quick recovery and he'd fly out with Peter in tow.

The Triskelion loomed through the rain, a positive Bastille of technology and secrecy. Search lights were already swiping to and fro; Felicia's break out had happened less than an hour beforehand and already S.H.I.E.L.D. was up in arms.

Which meant that they would be distracted, which suited Harry perfectly.

 _I'm going to kiss you when I see you, kitten_ , he thought with a grin.

He bobbed and weaved between the lights. Down below he saw the security squad on the alert, men and women keeping close watch for anything out of the ordinary. Harry and his glider would have been shot down if he'd been visible, thermal and and traceable in any way.

He hummed to himself as he flew to the tenth floor of the Triskelion's main hub. He could see hundreds upon hundreds of people inside through the thermal imaging in his goggles-and one solitary figure sitting in an office alone.

Harry reached for one of the small, neon orange bombs affixed to his belt. As he hovered, he turned the top half of the round bomb several times, increasing the power of the blast. Then he chucked it at the wall. Green gel oozed from the back of the pumpkin-looking bomb, serving both as an adhesive and a conductor for the explosives within the orange sphere. Harry backed away, and not a moment too soon.

With an almighty bang, the wall exploded inwards. An immense puff of purple smoke billowed through the air as rubble fell towards the ground below. Harry wasted no time in zooming through the nearly eight foot by eight foot hole he'd blown in the side of the Triskelion.

People were shouting and coughing and scrambling for purchase against whatever the hell had just happened. Harry paid them enough heed to move his foot slightly and press a panel on his glider. Bright orange smoke billowed from the bottom of the gliders jet propulsion thrusters. Blinded and coughing, the S.H.I.E.L.D agents stumbled through the dense smoke as Harry, granted perfect vision by his goggles and mask, tore through the air, following a very familiar signature to one side of the hallway.

Another bomb, set to a smaller gauge than the last, took care of the door. Harry whirred into the containment room and found himself staring at a wide eyed, gray clothed Peter Parker.

Harry deactivated the glider's camouflage, tossed his hood off and lifted his goggles.

Peter's jaw dropped.

"What's up?" Harry glided towards his gobsmacked friend. Peter seemed torn between shock and exhaustion, pressed against the wall and immobile. "I get that you're happy to see me, but you might wanna climb aboard my chariot. These S.H.I.E.L.D. types come with knives."

Peter all but tripped over himself as he clambered aboard the glider.

"Might wanna get a little fresh," Harry said, throwing his hood and facial equipment back up. "This baby isn't built for two, as you well remember."

"This is all very analogous to last Christmas," Peter said, securing a hold around Harry's waist.

"I'll have to take a picture of this later." The glider lifted a few more inches off the floor. Harry threw yet another pumpkin bomb at the opposite wall. "Felicia is going to be over the moon when she sees two actual dudes this close together."

"Felicia?"

"I'll explain when we're somewhere a little less out-to-kill-us." The pumpkin bomb let out a shrill beep and a moment later the wall exploded in a cloud of neon smoke. Peter spluttered, and Harry felt him press his face into his back.

"Probably should have warned you about that." Harry propelled the glider forwards. He could see the dark sky-feel the cool rain and wind. A few more feet and they'd be out in the open and on their way to New York City...

Something metallic caught the glider at the back. A split second later and Harry and Peter were both jerked backwards; Harry, being connected to the glider, was sent tumbling end over end through the air. Peter wasn't so lucky-he fell to the floor in a heap.

When he was able to get himself righted, Harry saw a lithe figure in dark fatigues walking through the dust and debris and smoke towards Peter; they tossed a grappling gun to the floor and pulled a pair of Glock 26's from hip holsters.

Natasha Romanov shook her ruby red hair out of her face as she stared Peter down.

Snarling, Harry reached for his own guns, only for the Black Widow to turn on him. One second Harry was facing down the barrel of a sleek black gun; the next he was shocked by a sudden bolt of electricity fired from the end of Natasha's wrists. With a groan and a crash, the glider fell to the floor, taking its rider with it into a bout of paralyzing unconsciousness.

* * *

It was an occupational hazard of being a hero that one had to get used to rapid fire changes. Where most people would have dissolved into hysterics, if not full blown psychosis, after being framed for murder, incarcerated and stripped of their secret identity, busted out by an old friend only to subsequently be stopped cold by the Black Widow, Peter had to keep his wits about him. Not only was New York City counting on him, but the people he loved were as well.

So, staring at Natasha Romanov's impassive face as she slowly approached him with two sleek guns trained on him, Peter decided that he'd had about enough of being pushed around. He waited, his muscles coiling, rage and frustration coursing through his bloodstream. He did not move, not yet; he needed Natasha to think that she'd gotten the upper hand.

"Friends on the outside," she said. "I'm impressed. Not many people could put a dent in the Triskelion. You're either more innocent than we're giving you credit for or gultier."

"And don't tell me: your opinion falls on the latter end of the spectrum."

"I fall along a lot of spectrums. That one is still a little up in the air. Now, you're going to come with me cooperatively or I'm going to put you both out of my misery."

"Careful, Black Widow. That might tarnish your reputation as a role model to young girls and questioning men everywhere. What're you going to do without all the royalties from your Barbie dolls?"

Natasha paused. She cocked her head to the side, weapons still trained on Peter. She was only a few feet from him, but he needed her closer. "Smart mouth," she said interestedly. "You'd fit in well with us."

Peter snorted. "Going to be kind of hard with a bullet in my skull."

"I'll only put one between your eyes if you give me a reason."

"It wouldn't be very good PR if The Avengers had a known criminal on their side."

Natasha grinned and crouched down. Something dangerous and dark flashed in her cold blue eyes. "Trust me, kid. Cold blooded killing is practically a prerequisite for being on The A-Team."

Peter waited, feeling his entire body vibrate with power. He was going to come out swinging, guns or no guns. He was tired of this-of being beaten around and kept from the only things in life he wanted at the moment.

Closer. A few steps closer was all he needed Natasha to take before he could be in striking range. He could sweep her feet out from under her, clock her under the jaw, snap the guns from her wrists...

Black Widow searched Peter's face for a moment.

Then she righted herself and took a step back.

"Let's go."

Peter blinked, but did not let his guard down.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "No, seriously. Let's go. I've read all the tabs we have on you. I've spoken with Tony and Clint and Thor. You're strength levels exceed that of what you usually possess by a factor of ten at least. You have enhanced senses, agility and reflexes; even without your webbing you're a force to be reckoned with. As much as it pains me to say it, you'd wipe the floor with me, and I'm not stupid enough to test the odds in a fight against you."

"You could just shoot me."

"Only if you have me a reason."

Slowly, Peter rose to his feet, not taking his eyes off of Natasha. Cold air and rain blew in from the massive hole that Harry had blown in the wall. It would be so easy to just handspring out and fall to the pavement. It wouldn't even hurt him.

Only there would be no way back to New York City in as quick a time as he wanted to be there. He thought of Mary Jane and Eddie; about Aunt May and Rio and Miles; about Doctor Banner and Darcy and Johnny Storm and his family.

He was still trapped. Still helpless. He felt his eyes burn as the feeling of profound powerlessness came upon him with a choking force. He couldn't cry, not here, not in front of the cold as steel Natasha Romanov.

Black Widow lowered her 26's. A strange light came into her eyes-something overwhelmingly sympathetic.

Okay. Maybe she wasn't as cold as people said she was.

Peter blinked his emotion away.

"Just for the record," he said thickly, "you'd have kicked my ass clear to Timbuktu."

Natasha arched a smooth eyebrow. "How do you figure, Spider-Man?"

"I'd have pulled my punches."

Natasha grinned. "Dog shit. I know what it's like to be backed into a corner. You only pull your punches when you have something to gain by it."

A groan from the corner made both spiders turn about. Harry was regaining consciousness.

"He's coming with us," Peter said bluntly. He still couldn't believe that his old frenemy had returned to bust him out.

"Of course he is. He's the other reason I had to bank the last thirty minutes of my lunch break."

Peter closed the space between himself and Harry; kneeling down, he helped Harry to a sitting position. His hood fell off; one lens from his techie looking goggles had cracked. He looked much the same as Peter remembered, not that he'd been expecting Harry to undergo a drastic change in the last several months.

The second he regained his bearings, Harry reached for his own set of weapons. Natasha tensed, drawing her glocks once more.

"Okay enough," Peter said with a sigh. "All these firearms are giving me serious agita."

"She started it," Harry muttered.

"You were the one who blew the Triskelion into Swiss cheese," the Black Widow countered.

"Well you people should get better security. And also maybe your heads out of your asses, seeing as how Spider-Man is the last person capable of committing murders of any kind. That's my cup of tea."

"And if that doesn't sound like a confession, then I'll gouge out my other eye."

A voice, full of command and hardened edge, made Peter, Harry and Natasha all start. Looking to the doorway leading to the corridor, Peter saw a man of imposing height and strength standing in the doorway; a man with dark clothes and skin and one glaring eye visible.

"Fury," Natasha said curtly. "I had a little accident trying to contain the situation."

"Accident my ass," Fury said. "You never do anything accidentally, Agent Romanov, and there aren't enough stars in the sky for me to count on luck for that." Nick Fury strode into the ruins of the room; he surveyed Harry's glider and get-up, the one eye not concealed by his dark patch looking at the machinery in grudging approval.

"Talking about luck," he said, striding up to Peter, "it's a good thing we got what we needed out of our conference call with Reed Richards. Would have been nice to have had some more information on this alien silly putty, but then Sundance here had to go charging in with a Bolivian army to spring you out."

"I'm glad he did," Peter said, not breaking eye contact with Fury. Respect was the last thing on his mind under the circumstances. Deference, however, was something he supposed he could afford.

Fury clenched his jaw. He looked to the gaping hole in the side of the Triskelion. "We're having this conversation," he said in a tone that suggested neither he nor anyone else in the room was being given an option. "But we're having it somewhere a little goddamn warmer if it's all the same to the three of you."

"On one condition," Peter said.

"One condition?" Harry muttered. "I'd be laying out a contract after this."

Fury ignored him. He inclined his head, indicating that Peter continue.

"You're spilling the details in under ten minutes. You go over and I let loose. And that-" he pointed to the rubble and debris-"is nothing compared to what I'll do to this place and anyone who gets in my way if you keep me away from New York City any longer. We good?"

Something like a smile graced Fury's hardened face. Peter wasn't about to go reading into it, but he almost thought that the lead commander for S.H.I.E.L.D. was looking at him with respect. Instead of replying, he drew a perfect square in the air with his fingers.

They were good, Peter knew, and then some.

Fury's idea of somewhere warmer turned out to be a massive control room on the middle floor of the Triskelion. Leaving Harry's glider behind with assurances that it wouldn't be impounded, provided he unscramble the computer systems in the Triskelion, Fury and Natasha led their two unexpected guests to mission control. The room was all cool blues and blacks and glowing white screens of all sizes. Agents scurried around in the dimness of auxiliary power. Peter rather thought he saw Harry smirking in self-satisfaction at the chaos he'd wrought.

"I almost want to leave them in the dark," he said with a sigh.

"Gee, and here I was painting mental images of you working as a missionary in El Salvador," Peter replied. "Nice to see you're reliable."

"Like the weather," Harry said.

Fury and Natasha stopped near a side pod of computers. A dark haired woman was currently commanding a harried looking team. When she saw Fury, Natasha, Harry and Peter, she paused.

"Which one of them do I get to flay alive?" She said.

Peter and Harry glanced at each other in mock surprise.

"Flaying?" Harry repeated. "I didn't hear anyone say anything about flaying. Did you?"

"I heard something that went eff-eye-en-gee," Peter said. "Maybe it was finagling? Or was it fidgeting?"

Harry snapped his fingers. "It could have been fuc-"

"Please let me shoot them both," the agent said.

"No time for that, Hill," said Fury. "The Clint Eastwood looking one is going to fix the bugs like a good little boy who just avoided severe punishment."

"Well when you put it that way, Commander Furiosa, I'll do it with bells on." Harry grinned at the seething state he'd reduced Fury to, and all but hopped over the computer panel.

"Clock's ticking," Peter said pointedly, turning to face Fury and Natasha with his arms across his chest. "And don't try to sell me that you brought me down here to watch Harry fix his little boo-boo."

"This way," Fury said curtly. Peter followed, Natasha flanking him. Peter had a distinct feeling that Black Widow was there was an extra security detail just in case he decided to make good on his threat of bailing out.

"We're organizing a convoy to secure the Baxter Building," Fury said. He led Peter and Natasha down a small corridor off the side of the main control room. "Thanks to your airborne friend back there, we couldn't roll out soon as I'd have liked."

"Then why take so long to let me out?"

Fury ignored him. He stopped in front of a pair of sealed, steel double doors and scanned first his hand prints and retina, and then entered a security access code.

"As soon as the virus is removed, the convoy will be en route to New York City, but your friend's glider can get there a lot faster. You'll beat us by at least half an hour, which buys you a crap ton of time."

Peter shook his head in disbelief as he stepped into a wide room that, at first glance, looked to be nothing but dark walls and eerie blue lighting. "You wanted my co-operation. You kept me here because you wanted me to help you with something."

"You're the only person who's actually bonded with it," Natasha said when, again, Fury didn't answer.

"It?" Peter stared at Natasha. "What does the symbiote have to do with…" His voice died as cold terror coiled within him.

Black Widow gave him what he was quite sure was her best attempt at a supportive smile. "We were combing over as much security footage as we could find. From street cams to people's smartphones at or nearby every scene. What we found looked almost similar to when this goop bonded to you."

Peter felt his skin crawling at the notion that the volatile symbiote had found a new host. And if that host was Cletus Kasady, then New York City was as good as a slaying ground until the two were stopped.

"I have to get back," he said. "I need my suit, I—

"Those rags aren't going to do jack for you right now with the state they were in." Fury was standing in front of a panel of wall which, upon closer inspection, Peter realized was simply another set of sliding doors.

"But—

"You're going back," Fury went on. "You're just going back in style."

With that, he slid the panel of the walls open. Pale white light flooded across the floor, blinding Peter for a moment so that he could not see or discern what had been held behind the panel.

His eyes adjusted.

"Holy shit."

The panel had been obscuring a glass display case. There, set behind the glass, was a full suit of what he could only think of as armor. It was _his_ costume, the same spider splash against a suit of red from head to foot. Only the eyes and spider were a shade of solid gold, and the suit beneath was a deeper scarlet. Every bit of the suit looked metallic—like it belong to a knight...or to Iron Man.

Too awestruck to speak, Peter touched a shaking hand to the glass. As if in response, an electric blue light glowed behind the golden spider, spreading from the chest of the armor to the palms of its gloves.

He looked back at the others, almost unsure of what it was that was happening.

Natasha had a real smile on her face now. Fury was grinning, and, as if he was reading Peter's mind, he said, "What? You think we were never going to ask you to join The Avengers? You _were_ around first, after all."

Peter swallowed. "Then why did you wait?"

"Because we barely have our ranks sorted out as it is," Natasha said. "You forget, we've only been a team since March. We would have asked sooner but then you started acting like a complete split personality, so we waited."

The auxiliary lights died. A moment later, the power returned in full force, giving Peter an even stronger view of the iron armor…of _his_ new armor.

"Look at that," Fury said. "Boy genius pulled through after all. Whaddya say, Spider-Man?"

Peter looked into the golden eyes of the suit. Something in his marrow told him that he was going to need the added protection in this upcoming fight.

He nodded, still holding the iron spider's empty eyed gaze

"Suit me up, commander."


	18. Venom and Carnage

All Carlie could remember of the before time was a vast swarm of confusion, almost like a locust cloud. She'd run from it because it had been frightening but now, in the thick of that mass, she felt positively powerful. How she had been so foolish as to deny it so long she did not know. This was beautiful, perfect completion, something that had been missing in her life since before she'd even taken note of it.

The buzzing voice—the honest part of her that was as right and belonging as her own blood, whispered fragments of words and suggestions—things she had been too afraid of doing before out of fear. Now there was no fear—only freedom.

 _Kill, slaughter, havoc, chaos_

Yes. That was what she was now. The true essence of the universe had sprung from chaos, from carnage. To be that lady of misrule was to be ageless, to be perfect; everything around her—all the foolish people—lived ignorantly by the rules of the world. They were playthings for her now, much as they had been for Cletus.

The blood was beautiful, the screams a symphony. The pain was exquisite and the taboo so delicious. She'd drunk of it, becoming intoxicated on it that night when the swarm had first seized her in its midst. It had shown her the folly in her fear, given her power and knowledge the likes of which she'd never dreamed of attaining. She knew things of those who'd made her life miserable—knew their secrets and their sorrows and the grievous injury they'd done to the swarm.

It had been natural to strike out, to cut and slash and tear and snap and strangle and assault her way through the ignorant sheep of the city. But as fulfilling as it had been, the pervasive sense of something missing had only deepened.

 _Missing, pieces, shattered, lost, fragment, find_

She needed to be whole—they both needed to be whole. Oh, but there were so many distractions along the way—so many bleating little lambs to sink her teeth into.

It had taken her here, this need to be whole again. Only there were so many helpless people here in the hospital, so many sick and dying and vulnerable—like the whelp she'd found in the cafeteria.

Looking into the terrified eyes of the boy she now held in her sibilant grip, Carlie pictured all that his life might have been before—friends, family, school; the ignorance of youth mingled with the perpetual optimism of it. He was probably a scraper, a cocky mama's boy who was just now appreciating the femoral beauty of girls. His body hadn't filled out, was only just underway of those magic changes that would make him a capable, strong man.

And she could snuff it all out: with one lash of her tongue or slash of her hand, he would be nothing but a bleeding out carcass on the ground, and that was only if she wanted to expedite the process.

She breathed him in, taking the scent of his terror into her, feeling it permeate her skin. He was on the precipice of completely losing control of his body.

She scoffed, letting her tongue slide between her lips. Slowly she caressed the side of his sweat-shined, tear-stained face with her tongue. Goodness, but he tasted wonderful.

"You think you're afraid now," she whispered; the swarm turned in on itself, somersaulting in delight at the words. "I'm in the mood to play, and this little session wouldn't be a regular one-versus-one. I'd make you beg for it the way I made the others beg."

The boy sobbed; Carlie let out a pronounced moan at the sound.

 _Lost, missing, here, near, ours, other_

She frowned, her tongue sliding back into her mouth.

"Fortunately for you I'll have to be fast. You'll appreciate that. I know how much you young people love instant gratification. Although in this case the gratification will be mine." She smiled at the boy as he let out a silent scream; again she pictured all the things she could do if only she had the time.

Something vibrated in the air around her. She turned, confused, but a moment too late. She saw the enraged face of a woman, and felt the air near her whistle as something sharp and heavy sliced through it. A moment later, pain ricocheted through her body as the blade of a fire axe buried itself in her chest.

Carlie screamed. The swarm gnawed at her and at itself; she saw the familiar pain of her old self through the black and red of the swarm; felt the hateful vulnerability for a microsecond that stretched for a blistering eternity.

Her grip on the boy faltered; he fell to the floor and scrambled away on his hands and knees. The attacking woman wrenched the axe free and swung again; this time the blow connected with Carlie's shoulder blade.

Rage eclipsed the pain and vulnerability. Screaming, she lashed an appendage from her body at the woman, knocking her to the side.

The swarm closed over her wounds, knitting flesh and bone and sinew back together.

Her attacker had crawled across the floor to the boy; both were on their feet, she in front, shielding him with her body.

"You can't just go around hacking people with axes! What're you, insane?" The swarm bristled, and she stopped in her tracks. "Oh wait, that's me. I'm the mad one. Sorry for the faux pas."

"Miles," the woman said, her body emanating with fear and determination and maternal protection. "Get the hell out of here."

"Not without you, Mama."

"Oh how deeply moving," Carlie sighed, clasping her hands against her chest. "There's been a change of plans though."

Carlie's red and black skin protruded in the blink of an eye. Six-foot long spikes shot towards Miles and his mother. Both yelped and dove to the side, allowing Carlie to swipe her arms sideways and grasp them both in appendage.

"Family reunions," she said with a fond sigh. She remembered one of the sheep from earlier that day. They'd been a family: a father, mother and crunchy little thing in the shape of a child. It hadn't been enough to make a complete meal out of them—she'd let the screeching little brat live because it was funnier that way, although with a few scars to remember her by.

Carlie lifted Miles and his mother higher into the air. "I'm at a stalemate," she sighed, shaking them both for good measure as her viscous skin oozed tighter and tighter around them. "I want you to set a good example for your boy, Mommie Dearest. So really I should just slurp your guts out like spaghetti first and make junior here watch-

"No!" Miles screamed.

Carlie shook him like a rag doll. "Not right now; Auntie Carlie is talking. Where was I? Oh yes: your impending demise. You know the last picnic I had was these four dudes who roomed together on the Upper East Side and you wouldn't believe how much fun I had with them." Just thinking of it made her skin ripple in pleasure—the indignity and humiliation before the pain and the screams. "I think I'll pick your brain first, little Miles. And when I say that, I mean it quite literally." One of the claws clutched tightly around the boy's throat elongated to a lethal size.

Miles's mother kicked and screamed, and Carlie found the noise most irritating. Her fingers wrapped around the woman's mouth, shutting her up.

Just as she made to drive the razor point of her finger into the teenager's scalp, she felt the sudden and unmistakable presence of something simultaneously other and painfully familiar—It was as if there were an old friend lurking somewhere in the building overhead. Only it was separate—a piece of her that had been cruelly excised.

Drawn by sudden curiosity, she flung Miles and his mother as far across the darkened cafeteria as she could. Miles collided with the wall and slid pitifully to the floor; his mother's head hit the edge of the serving counter, knocking her out cold.

Carlie was already walking towards the stairs, enraptured by the presence she felt from the floors above.

 _Mine._

 _No, not mine._

 _Ours._

* * *

Outwardly it had seemed to everyone that Eddie Brock had been non responsive—completely comatose and unaware of anything outside his own subconscious. But that was entirely untrue. Eddie had been aware, both of the world outside and the thing that had crept in through the minuscule cut in his skin he'd made the day he'd been shaving.

He'd simply elected not to wake up.

The intruder had ripped through his bloodstream and the rest of his body with fiery rage—a capacious thirst for revenge; a burning hatred that had seared Eddie from the inside out with such agonizing heat that he'd thought he'd die from it.

But Eddie Brock was a survivor. Moreover, when he discerned just who it was occupied the fixation of the invading presence, all thought of surrendering in any way disappeared. He would be damned if he let anything hurt Peter, least of all when he didn't deserve it.

The presence—the venom—had fought with everything in it to use Eddie as a vessel; Eddie had let himself slip into the recesses of his coma and taken the thing down with him. He'd listened to it's rage and wrath—the same rage that had brimmed with him and carried him through the more trying times of his life. He'd let it scream and squirm and try to surface but had held fast with everything he had.

And when at last he'd worn the thing out, he'd taken it on a tour of his own being—memories, emotions both ugly and sublime; he'd shown it Peter as he was to Eddie; his courageous, kind-hearted, always breaking self. He'd shown it memories of when he and Peter had lived together: of their nights watching _Game of Thrones_ , playing _Halo_ or just staying awake talking about infinite nothings. He'd shown it the times Peter had broken down when he'd thought Eddie hadn't been aware; shown it the need Eddie had had to offer some kind of comfort. He'd shown it those first flickerings of the spectacular, terrifying something that had blossomed in Eddie's heart for Peter; shown it the havoc wrought by Otto Octavius and how it had rippled almost fatally through Eddie. He'd let the thing in, showing it his own demonic anger and feelings of disuse in those months following Cletus Kasady's attack; let it see just how, despite everything they both had on their shoulders, Peter and Mary Jane had been there for him, picking him up from the floor and showing him who he was. He let the venomous entity see the parts of Eddie Brock that Eddie Brock didn't want to reveal to himself, let alone anyone or anything else. He let it see and feel the torment and then acceptance of those frightening feelings for the two people who meant more than life itself.

At the end of it all, the parasite had changed—had calmed and settled into an understanding. It had seen Eddie's need to help, to aide in Spider-Man's endless fight against evil, and thrown one acid-black appendage his way. Eddie had wanted to give it more time to acclimate to his body and being; what with the words of those who'd visited him since his hospitalization running through him, he had no fear of slipping away into true darkness.

Yet the weight of guilt at leaving them—Aunt May and Rio and Miles and, especially, Peter and MJ—alone and worrying had been a dreadful thing to bear. And when he'd heard MJ pleading about his returning for Peter's sake, he'd reached his limit.

At the same time, the venom had grown restless, stirred by the approach of something that had struck Eddie as awful and familiar—a piece of the parasite that had been torn away and twisted by something mad and truly evil.

They'd surfaced together, and he'd found himself healed, transformed and staring at a terrified Mary Jane.

She was gasping in abject terror; pressed against the wall with tears spilling from eyes squeezed tightly shut. Thousands of strange sensations filled him, pulsing against his new sleek, obsidian skin. He could taste MJ's acrid fear—smell the disbelief and sorrow. And still that familiar presence seemed to permeate the membrane of his new skin, pulling at the carefully tether he had on his parasite.

No.

He wasn't going to follow that sensation. Not when there was somebody infinitely more important in front of him.

Eddie let the symbiote recede from his face and one hand. He gently brushed his fingers against MJ's cheek.

His voice raspy from days of disuse, as well as from the violence with which he'd pulled the oxygen tube from his throat, Eddie said, "Don't...be...afraid..."

MJ's eyes snapped open; she stared at him dumbly.

He needed her to understand; couldn't live with himself if he had to see that terror on her face directed his way. It killed him that she was so stricken with fear—that he'd brought her distress like this.

"Eddie?" MJ reached a trembling hand forward. Eddie felt her fear like a slap in the face. With a hesitant touch, she cupped the side of his cheek in her hand.

Warmth spread through him; the venom rippled as it recognized Mary Jane as one of those shinging stars in the black sky of Eddie's life. His memories unfolded like a night blooming flower, and the venom drank like a honeybee deprived of precious nectar.

 _Yes, Mary Jane, soft, strong, friend, love_

Eddie smiled, tilting his head into the familiar gentleness of MJ's palm.

Mary Jane let out a shaky laugh. "I don't understand," she whispered. "It's all over you...it's changed you..."

Eddie shook his head, still savoring MJ's touch. "It's healed me, MJ. All of me. My body, my mind...it's a part of me now."

"But it made Peter go crazy."

Yes. It had. Eddie had seen and felt the pain in the venom. It had wanted to help Peter but Peter had been so overwrought and confused from his emotions that it had torn the venom apart. Peter had fought against it and himself and the venom hadn't known what to do. But Eddie had accepted it; unlike Peter, he'd never operated under the assumption that he was normal or that he was a hero; he co-existed with the venom, knew it to be separate from his own emotional state.

"He fought it, MJ," Eddie whispered. "And it didn't know how to co-exist with another being...not until now. It only feeds off of what I choose to let it feed off of."

He needed her to understand— _they_ needed her to understand. They weren't evil or wrong or disturbed, nor lost and confused like poor Peter had been; they were two living off of each other as one, the venom filling the pieces missing within Eddie Brock, and Eddie Brock holding together the fragile threads of the venom.

Something like comprehension dawned in Mary Jane's stormy green eyes. Eddie was just beginning to feel content in the knowledge that he'd reached her, really reached her, when he felt something pierce through him like a sword point turned into sound. It was that horrible familiarity—that notion that someone he knew and did not at all like was in the building.

A moment later the screams reached him from clear out the door and down the corridor. MJ jumped at the sound; the symbiote slithered over Eddie's head once more, consuming the man and making them one of two again...making them Venom.

"Eddie what's-

"You stay here," Venom said as they got to their feet. "We'll deal with this."

"Oh like hell I'm going to-

Venom grimaced and lashed their hand out. A line of dense black webbing, thick as a jungle vine, hit MJ square in the middle, pinioning her to the wall. She struggled against it, and stared at Venom in furious disbelief.

"Oh, you slimy, steroid pumping son of a bitch!"

Venom smiled. "Sticks and stones may break our bones, kid." And with that he wrenched the door open, slammed it shut and twisted the handle so that MJ wouldn't be able to escape, and nothing would be able to get in.

Chaos reigned in the darkened corridors. The scent of it washed over Venom like a tidal wave; they breathed it in, all that terror and confusion, and held it in their skin and their lungs. People screamed as they saw the hulking black and white behemoth stalk down the teeming corridors; the fearful folk didn't know where to turn or run or what to do. Trapped between this newcomer and whatever it was that was wreaking noisome havoc somewhere down the dark hallway, they bleated like frightened goats.

Annoyed at the way the people ran and scampered, Venom stretched their arms. Thick ropes of black shot from their fingertips to the walls. With one forceful push, they parted the fleeing doctors and nurses and visitors to the side. Satisfied, Venom stared into the darkness covering the opposite end of the corridor; the auxiliary power cast red shadows over the linoleum; but Venom didn't need to see what it was that slunk out of the dimness; they could feel it, and it was sheer malice and cruelty.

A pair of eyes, white as Venom's own, soon loomed through the shadows. A body, lithe and deadly like an asp, emerged soon afterwards, as red as raw, bloody flesh with tar black tendons lacing the arms, legs, midriff and chest.

Venom's whole body pulsed with a primitive warning; this newcomer, however familiar she was—a former piece of them though she may be—was unequivocally evil.

Her mouth parted in a wide smile of pitch black, dagger-like teeth—smiling at him in welcome.

Snarling, Venom fired a rope of black of webbing at her. It caught her by the chest; before she could respond, Venom flung her violently to the side with all their force. Plaster, drywall, girders and beams all collapsed like butter as the scarlet symbiote was sent hurtling through the wall and three floors to the street below.

Roaring, Venom leapt through the gaping hole in the hospital wall. They leapt to the ground. Rain fell with a vengeance over New York City; an entire army's worth of police officers had formed a circle around the hospital—evidently the red symbiote had already attracted enough attention to alert the authorities.

The symbiote lay on the dented concrete, looking every bit the wounded gazelle as Venom prowled towards her. She let out an insane scream and lunged to him, her fingers extending into foot long black and red blades. Venom rebounded on a back handspring, catching the symbiote under the chin. She sailed through the air over his head, and landed on her feet on the sign above the hospital entrance.

"Rough play," she said in a voice that put Venom in mind of an insane asylum. "I've had rougher, though."

"We're not playing." Venom webbed the bottom of the sign and yanked it earthwards. The red symbiote laughed and laucnhed herself into the air just as the metal and plastic sign came crashing down. Venom tugged and sent the sign flying the other symbiote's way.

She pounced on him in a split second, the sign sailing over her head and towards the police cars. The very nearness repulsed Venom, even as the red symbiote sank her claws into their chest. Roaring, Venom seized her by the shoulders and ripped her from their body. They felt their own skin and the skin of Eddie Brock tear, but in a single instant the black symbiote mended the injuries.

The red symbiote collided with the hood of a police car and rolled into a feral crouch. She widened her jaws and let out a hiss. An office near her yelled for the surrounding troop to train their guns on her. The red symbiote's eyes narrowed; she raised a hand and her fingers stretched to an obscene length in a lighting second. Growing at least seven feet long like vines, the lethal appendages impaled themselves through the nearest officer. The young man gasped and gurgled, blood spilling from his lips.

Rage eclipsed Venom's rationality for a moment. With a roar like a wounded Kodiak bear, Venom seized a sheet of the fallen metal sign and shredded it. They flung one razor sharp edge of the makeshift projectile with all their force; it sliced through the air and a moment later, right through the red symbiote's elongated claws, severing her deadly hold on the dying officer.

Screaming, the other launched herself at Venom once more.

The commanding officer called for fire; bullets exploded in the night air. Neither Venom nor the red symbiote took any notice as they clashed. Venom let the projectiles deep into their body, holding the impact and bits of hot metal in the permeable black of their skin. The red symbiote's own flesh splattered in bits, but she did not stop her trajectory at all. Venom met her impact strength for strength as bullets continued to rain through the air.

Venom was power and meted fury; the red symbiote was fast, unhinged brutality. As they met blow with powerful blow, Venom felt the familiarity of his enemy like a cancer on their skin. They caught flashes of the thing's own tumultuous feelings and memories as they blocked and took hit after hit. They had to rid the world of her; had to prevent any further innocent lives being harmed like the dying police officer.

Venom let the scarlet monster sink her claws in to their flesh once more; Venom flashed her a wide, fanged smile; the next second they coiled their leg muscles and jumped as high as they could into the rainy air. The red symbiote withdrew her claws, but it was too late; Venom launched a corded black web at the side of the hospital for leverage and, on the down swing, let the red symbiote fall and kicked her as hard and as far as they could.

She fell to the ground hundreds of feet off, landing on the busy street. Venom swung towards her, firing webbing at a street lamp and swooping down low to kick the symbiote in the chest. Sheer inertia sent her soaring into the nearest vehicle—an abandoned Peterbrilt truck parked along the curb near a gas station. The chrome hood of the powerful truck collapsed inwards as if it were made of tinfoil.

"We can do this all night," Venom said as they pounded across the pavement towards her. "We've just been dying to tear into something for the last few months."

The red symbiote extricated herself from the wreckage of the eighteen wheeler. Her white eyes were narrowed in indignant rage, like two slits of awful white lightning in a tangle of red and black cloud.

People screamed and ran from the gas station; some to the street, others to their cars. The scarlet symbiote took note of a young man and his two children as they fled in a shiny silver Civic. Smiling with evil delight, she launched herself at the car, landing on the hood as the terrified father did everything in his power to keep the vehicle on course.

Venom's senses, enhanced by their time with Spider-Man, ran haywire; the red symbiote was using all her energy to slash and scrape and steer the car as the man tried desperately to drive. With a growl, Venom propelled themselves to the roof of the car as it continued to speed down the rain slicked street.

Venom seized the red symbiote by the throat; a million lights raced passed them; rain and wind pelted into Venom's body. They lifted the symbiote up as high as they could, disconcerted to find she was smiling. Venom screamed furiously in the monstrosity's face, saliva spraying against those horrible eyes; then they hurled her as hard as they could from the roof of the car. They did not see where she landed, nor did they care. The symbiote had mangled the hood of the car, and the terrified father seemed unable to stop it from its continued propulsion down the streets.

Venom righted themselves and looked around at the rapidly passing scenery. Other vehicles and pedestrians were clearing the way as fast as they could, but not fast enough for Venom's liking.

So be it. If the people were going to be that slow, then Venom would speed the process up. Shifting their weight from side to side, Venom guided the out of control car like a skateboard; they fired copious ropes of black webs at vehicles and people alike and jerked them out of the way and through the air. Most of them scarcely had time to scream or yell before they found themselves stuck to the sturdy webs that Venom had laid behind.

They shifted the pressure of their body to the rear of the car; the bumper ate pavement, screeching and sending sparks into the air behind it. But the car was slowing, and not a moment too soon; the main drag ended at a small park and Venom didn't much fancy the chances the car stood against the solid brick walls surrounding the little green area. But, as the car drew ever closer and closer, it's rear shredded by the wet concrete below, Venom realized that they'd be very lucky indeed if the car didn't collided with the wall.

"Screw us running," Venom cursed. With another great bound, they launched themselves off the car; without their weight, the vehicle's trajectory increased to a deadly velocity. Venom landed on the park wall, turned around and had one split second of envisioning the headlights, smoking hood and terrified faces of the driver and his kids slamming into the thick brick and mortar.

Then Venom roped the mangled hood with two solid webs from each wrist. They pulled the lines with all their might and the car went arching into the air. Tongue between their teeth, Venom kept their ground and pulled the reins, deadening the nearly airborne vehicle's momentum just enough to pull it to the ground on the opposite side of the park wall. The frame shook and the windows cracked, but it was still in one piece. Bounding across the sodden earth, Venom wrenched the passenger side door off the back of the car and did the same to the driver's side.

The man was scarcely older than Eddie Brock; his face was cut from where the red symbiote had smashed through the window but he appeared unhurt; indeed, in his desperation to be with his shaking, sobbing children, he didn't even notice when he cracked his head on the top of the car doorframe.

Venom stood back, watching the father sink to the ground as he held his two children like the most precious things in the world. Venom supposed that they could have done a better job at bringing the vehicle to a smoother landing; really it was a miracle that the passengers were still alive. Yet they couldn't help the feeling of profound pleasure at having saved innocent lives.

But theyy couldn't linger, not when their other was still out there. Venom turned and prowled several feet away before a trembling voice called them to a halt.

"Thank you Spider-Man."

The eldest of the two children, a girl with short, spiked hair, was staring at Venom in awe.

Venoms smiled, which did little to soothe the three people they'd just saved. "Where are our manners? We forgot to introduce ourselves! Hi! We're Venom; no need to thank us. Your safety is reward enough and sends us leaping happily on our way."

They did, indeed, jump as high into the air as they could. Rain cascaded over their skin; they webbed their way down the street and away from the family they'd saved. The elation was there, prickling beneath their skin: this was why he did it—why Peter always slipped into the role of Spider-Man no matter what hardships reigned in his own personal life. There were people who needed help—innocent people who just wanted to live and learn and love.

Only Spider-Man-

 _No_ , Venom thought. _Not going to look at that._

There was something there, they knew. But to examine what it was would be to give way to those old wounds—to what Eddie Brock and the shattered symbiote had been before they'd become one—something that would lead them to ruin if they examined it.

Swooping down near a street corner in the Meatpacking District, Venom made up their mind to return to the hospital. They still had to set MJ free, not to mention assess the damage that had been done to the staff, visitors and patients at the hospital.

Venom soared past a darkened mechanic's garage. Their entire being screamed a split second too late; something collided with them; the force of a speeding bullet train sent Venom and their assailant hurtling through the air; the crashed through the windowed garage door of the auto shop, tumbling and rolling over each other as they skidded across the vast floor.

Snarling, Venom righted themselves, only for the red symbiote to slash at their eyes with her knife-like fingers. Blinking away black blood and pain, Venom staggered backwards. The red symbiote pounced, slashing and tearing like a feral cat. Relying on their senses, Venom wrenched the symbiote off by the wrists; before they could toss her away, she projected her scarlet skin outwards; the entirety of her middle turned into lethal, porcupine like spines. Venom dropped her, barely avoiding being impaled.

Laughing maniacally, the symbiote fired her own length of twisted red and black webbing. It caught Venom in the middle; they tried to tear at the adhesive appendages, but each furious swipe of their claws was met with renewal, the vine-like webs were regrowing faster than Venom could tear them away.

With a gleeful shout, the red symbiote sent Venom flying through the air. They collided against the solid iron of several car lifts; with a screech and a groan, half a dozen vehicles in the midst of repair toppled to the ground like a domino rally.

Venom rolled onto their side, boiling with rage and pain; the iron lifts that the cars had been sitting on swayed and buckled; the red symbiote jumped to the ceiling and scuttled along it like a demented tarantula. Venom got to their feet, prepared to match their other strength for strength. A moment later, the car lifts gave way and clanged to the ground.

Solid steel reverberated against concrete. Shockwaves rolled through the air; the sound and vibrations were like the stabbing of millions of hot knives; Venom roared; they felt themselves untether, loosening from the bond between symbiote and Eddie Brock. Black and white exploded partially from human skin. For one moment, Eddie Brock was left naked and vulnerable before the red nemesis.

"Ooh, I see London, I see France!" The red symbiote chanted in a singsong voice.

Black ooze slid back over Eddie's body with a vengeance. Venom filled the places where there had been nothing but raw humanity. In that instant Venom remembered that they had absorbed the volley of bullets fired by the police squadron back in front of the hospital. They could feel the metal somewhere in their skin, pocketed away like a set of spare keys.

The red symbiote dropped to the ground, a smile on her lips.

Venom grinned right back. Then they let the bullets fly; scores of metal shrapnel shot from their body; some hit the scarlet symbiote square in the front, staggering her approach. But the rest ricocheted behind her...and hit the tanks of gas and jerry cans left around the auto shop.

A wave of fire, hot and piercing, exploded from the back of the auto shop. Venom leapt to the ceiling and flattened themselves as low as they could; the red symbiote was not so lucky. The firestorm consumed her; tools and tires and pieces of scrap metal flew through the air at the force of the explosion. Venom narrowed their eyes against the clanging vibrations, feeling themselves slip away from their beautiful completion once or twice; but still they held themselves together.

The garage doors were blown outwards; a ball of fire escaped into the rainy night outside, sending heat and projectiles onto the street. When the firestorm cleared, Venom found themselves staring down at a small, slender woman with mousey brown hair. She was huddled into a ball, sweat shining on her bare skin, arms protectively guarding her body as she shook like a dry leaf in a hurricane.

Sneering at the pitiful sight, Venom thudded to the ground below. The woman looked up, her face stricken with terror. But Venom could feel the anger underneath that mask; the woman was only pretending. And as Venom slowly approached, they realized that they knew this woman—that they had both seen her in the memories of Eddie Brock an known her in the man's life.

"Crazy Carlie," Venom spat. "Why doesn't it surprise us? Taking a leaf out of your husband's book. We think you're pretty much kicked; you may be fast, but we're stronger. You know we are." The symbiote that was one part of Venom rippled in delight at the notion of being reunited with its missing pieces; but Eddie Brock knew better. There was something too corrupt about Carlie Cooper's piece of their whole. They didn't want something that putrid being a part of them at all.

Carlie stared at Venom, the mask of victimhood slipping. She shook her head, and a mad cackle escaped her lips, resounding off the charred walls of the auto shop.

"I'm never one to bring a knife to a gun fight," she whispered; Venom felt the air around them ripple with thousands of familiar presences; they felt the ground and walls radiate with the movement of something that was many things; something that scurried and scuttled like vermin in the darkness.

"Missing pieces," Carlie whispered. "I wanted to get them back but you're a little too big for me." She laughed again; Venom saw scarlet and black blobs slithering from the walls and floor towards Carlie. The symbiote was trying to stitch itself back together. "Good thing there are others."

"What good is getting pieces back together," Venom growled as they closed the space between themselves and Carlie, "if there's no glue to hold them?" There was nothing for it; Carlie was evil, and she couldn't be allowed to live. Spider-Man would turn the other cheek; he would let her go with a serious reprimand, the way the authorities had let Cletus Kasady live after the atrocities he'd committed.

But Venom wasn't Spider-Man; Venom wasn't that noble or good or just. They were pragmatic; so they thought nothing of taking Carlie Cooper by the throat and lifting her off her feet.

Carlie only smiled all the more, even as Venom closed their fingers around her thin neck. She looked almost euphoric at the idea of death. Venom looked into her watery brown eyes—they had to do this, had to rid the world of her.

They felt the symbiote pieces crawling up Carlie's body. Before they could finish her off, Carlie's whole body was consumed by the red and black once more. Refusing to relinquish their grasp, Venom squeezed her windpipe all the more tightly.

Again, the razor quills shot from Carlie's body, piercing through the hand Venom was choking her with—through the front of Venom's body and legs. Growling, Venom held fast, determined not to let his enemy win, even if it meant their own death.

Something stirred in the periphery of Venom's senses. A moment later, the air around them sang with the sound of something small but brimming with explosive power.

Looking down at their feet, Venom saw what looked like a softball-sized pumpkin made of plastic roll across the ground. It was beeping and flashing a bright shade of neon green.

Venom looked into the red symbiote's eyes and was pleased o see their own confusion mirrored there.

"Oh shit," she muttered; a split second later the bomb exploded; Venom and the red symbiote were blasted backwards; bits of Venom's skin slid off at the force of the explosive sound; they rolled behind the cover of one of the felled, mangled cars, waiting until they had all their pieces together before they looked back.

Bright purple smoke billowed through the air. Venom narrows their eyes against it. There, just beyond, two figures loomed, one wearing a hood and mask, the other...

Was it Spider-Man? Or was it Iron Man? It looked like a hybrid of the two. Venom could feel the signature of the person beneath the armor. Yes. It was Peter, only he'd been outfitted with a new suit of red and gold.

A scream of fury made Venom, Spider-Man and the cowled figure look round. Carlie had collected her pieces once more and was crawling as fast as she could along the walls.

"Missing pieces," she seethed, firing red and black webbing at every part of the auto shop in her petulant fury. "Missing pieces; I can find them. I can feel where you ripped us into pieces, Peter. I wonder what noises Reed Richards will make when I give him a taste of his own medicine? When I rip him up and tear his skin and drink of him?"

Venom made to fire a rope at the fleeing symbiote, but she foresaw that attack, jerked a hunk of felled scrap metal from the ground with her own webs and brought it slamming down feet from where Venom stood. Hissing, Venom determined to keep themselves together even as pain ricocheted through them.

Spider-Man fired a length of webbing at the symbiote, but she slashed through it as if it were tissue paper. "Who are you?" Spider-Man said.

The scarlet symbiote smirked. "I am the ultimate insanity. I am Carnage."

Venom's senses went haywire a split-second before Spider-Man's did. The beast calling itself Carnage sent red and black barbed spikes shooting from her body; the lethal projectiles went straight for Spider-Man and his friend; the hooded man dove out of the way and Spider-Man did the same; but the barbs, being a part of Carnage, were mobile—they changed course in mid-air, every last one of them targeting Spider-Man.

Venom dove for the hero, absorbing the spikes into their skin, letting the pieces of symbiote flesh melt under their own; they slammed Spider-Man into the nearest wall, shielding him from the barrage of lethal quills. Carnage let out a mad peal of cackling laughter, then snarled in fury as gunshots filled the air; the hooded man was shooting at her.

Venom let the symbiote slip from his face; Spider-Man froze, and the momentary distraction was all Venom needed; he fired thick black webs to the hero's wrists and ankles, keeping him bound against the wall.

But Spider-Man seemed scarcely to notice in his shock. The front of his mask separated with a series of small, mechanical clinks, exposing his wide-eyed face.

"Eddie?"

"In the flesh." Relieved as he was that Peter was safe, there was no chance in Hell he was going to let Peter go swinging after Carnage.

Carnage let out another scream; Eddie looked over his shoulder and saw her web a pair of guns away from the hooded, masked man. The guns exploded in the webs, and Carnage dropped them. Shrieking, she swung from the ceiling and out into the rainy night.

Turning back to face Spider-Man, Eddie grinned. "That's our exit cue. Don't wait up for us, tiger." Then he pressed his lips to Peter's. Peter stilled at the unexpected contact.

Eddie broke the warm, soft contact of his mouth against Peter's, licked his lips and let the symbiote crawl over his face once more.

With a growl Venom leapt to the air. Ignoring the calls of the two men below them, they webbed a spot outside and took off after Carnage, their entire body humming with the need to pursue—with the thirst to kill.

 **A/N: What's the temperature on some of liberties I'm taking with the changes? Do you guys like them? Or is it too drastic to have Carnage be a woman?**


	19. Descent

Somehow, Peter was able to surface through the oncoming sense of shock just enough to wrench his wrists and ankles free from the black webbing. The mask of his iron armor rapidly pieced itself back together, concealing his face as, half dumbstruck, he stumbled towards the remains of the garage doors.

"Are you alright, sir?"

The voice, smooth and crisp and British, failed to surprise Spider-Man. In the nearly hour long flight on Harry's glider, the web-shooter had familiarized himself with nearly every feature the iron spider armor offered him, but the constant company of the AI was quite possibly his least favorite part.

The display interface layer over the eyes of his mask showed him his heartbeat, oxygen levels and a plethora of other information. But Spider-Man didn't need the BPM display to know that his heart was beating a little too slowly; he didn't need the officious voice of Jarvis to tell him that he needed to calm himself down or risk being on the verge of a complete collapse.

Eddie had been taken over by the symbiote. And not only was he now a hulking behemoth of black alien skin and muscle, but the red one—the unhinged, screaming woman—was definitely not Cletus Kasady.

Peter Parker had lost yet another friend to the grips of something insidious. What was more, he knew that there wasn't a chance he'd be able to check on Mary Jane, or Aunt May or the Morales'.

One of the many added perks of the new suit that S.H.I.E.L.D. had made for him was a police, fire and ambulance scanner. Via an overlay on the mask's interface, Spider-Man could view an entire map of his current location, complete with blips of red, blue and black for fire, ambulance and police. One quick word to Jarvis had a full report of the where's and what's and who's of each incident; chiefest among his worries as he and Harry had flown into the city had been the hospital in Manhattan where Eddie had been staying for the last several days. He'd wanted nothing more than to make a beeline for the building, surrounded as it had been by a brute squad of police cars. Only the explosion in the Meatpacking District had sidetracked him.

His senses feeling dulled by the overwhelming effort of having to process all that had happened, he all but stumbled towards the garage doors. He was exhausted—going nearly on eighteen hours of full wakefulness; the storm was letting loose in all its fury over New York City, the winds gusting and the rain pelting. Trees and flagpoles bent and groaned as the gale screamed through the night.

"Sir," Jarvis said. "Based on your vitals, I suggest you take deep even breaths lest you black out."

Where was that voice coming from? Who was that voice? Why was he wearing this sturdy, metallic armor? Where was Mary Jane? What had happened to Eddie?

A solid hand gripped Spider-Man by the shoulder. The room spun, and a moment later he found himself face to face with a grimacing Harry Osborne. Before Spider-Man could ascertain how it was that he'd ended up here with his frenemy, Harry drew his fist back and socked the wall-crawler with all his might across the jaw.

Stars danced behind Spider-Man's eyes. As the pain and anger overtook him, he felt some subconscious inner being pulling at the jostled pieces of his mind. He blinked, and suddenly realized that he was wearing armor made for him by Tony Stark; that Harry had tried to Spring him from the Triskelion, and that both Eddie and MJ needed his help.

He also realized that Jarvis was still nattering like a concerned father in his ears; the interface flashed red, warning Spider-Man, somewhat futilely, that he'd just suffered damage.

"Thanks," Spider-Man said to Harry. "And Jarvis, give it a rest, yeah? I can do without the HUD display right now."

"But sir, I-

"I can barely stand having a little blue fairy telling me to listen when I play _Zelda_ ," Spider-Man said hotly. "You're distracting me hardcore. Just take a back seat unless you've got vital information about the big boss at the end of the game. Dig it?"

"I dig it, sir."

"Annoying little bugger," Harry remarked. He eyed Spider-Man warily as they looked past the blown out doors at the storm. "You good?"

"Yeah. Thanks for the Falcon punch."

"Anytime."

"It's just-

"I know." Harry watched the onslaught of the storm with grim determination. "But you falling to pieces is a risk I ain't about to take."

"Ain't is bad grammar."

"And getting yourself worked up is twelve steps to suicide right now, Pete. I know you wanna see your girl—although after that little soap opera lip-lock back there, I'm starting to wonder which way your webbing really swings, not that I'd have a problem with that."

Harry stamped a booted foot on the ground. His glider, discarded in the fight with Carnage, swooped from behind a pile of wreckage towards them. Harry hopped onto it and motioned for Spider-Man to do the same.

"We're going after them, aren't we?" Spider-Man said wistfully.

"That option does reek of stupid heroics, so what do you think? And as for your girlfriend, you forget that I have a partner in crime."

Harry tapped at the commlink in his ear; Spider-Man, keeping his arm securely around Harry's waist as the glider took off into the stormy night, could just hear a familiar purring voice below the howling winds.

"Hey kitten. What's up?"

"The opposite of down when applied to a gravitational field."

Harry smirked as the glider gained enough height. "We've got a change of plans."

"And you know how much I love that. What's the story?"

"I've got a spider on my back right now and he needs you to go and collect his lady love from Manhattan General. Think you can do that?"

Felicia laughed. "Spider? Are you there?"

"Hey Cat. Good to hear from you," Spider-Man said. He looked down; there was no reason for him not to drop and start swinging, but he wasn't about to go leaving the game in the middle of a half-time huddle.

"I'll treat your precious cargo with kitty paws," Felicia said. "But it's going to be touch and go. I've already had to pull some stunts to get by all the blockades the NYPD are setting up."

Harry and Spider-Man glanced at one another. Spider-Man quickly searched through the HUD and saw a large collection of black blips on the roads leading out of Manhattan.

"They're trying to contain the threat," he said, feeling his stomach sink.

"Don't worry your pretty little legs about it, Spider. If the worst comes to it there's a lot of places I can stow your girl around the city until things blow over."

"You are a goddess," Harry said in response.

Felicia laughed again. "No need to tell me that, baby. Love you." With that the connection severed. Harry room the glider up higher; Spider-Man glanced at the HUD, this time noticing a collection of silvery-blue blips on the radar.

"Hey Jarvis, what are those other dots? The ones near the Baxter Building?"

"They represent S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives, sir. They're opening a barricade around the Baxter Building as we speak."

"Think we can make it there in time to work our way out of this crappy Abbot and Costello movie we seem to have found ourselves in?" Harry asked.

"Not with my fat ass slowing you down," Spider-Man said.

"Going to drop?"

"Like its hot." Giving Harry a salute, Spider-Man let go of his waist and fell from the edge of the glider. The armor caught wind, keeping him buoyant for several moments-again, one of the many nifty features Tony Stark had added.

Coiling into a ball, Spider-Man fell fast, then sent a like of platinum webbing towards the nearest surface.

"Jarvis, keep Harry on my radar," he said as he swooped through the storm. "And set a the fastest course to the Baxter Building."

"Very good, sir."

Spider-Man had to hand it to the folks at S.H.I.E.L.D.: they certainly knew how to tinker with a suit. In the stiffest of winds, he'd had to work with physics while wearing his old costume. But given that Tony Stark had Horizon Labs at his disposal, not to mention the money of Stark Industries, Spider-Man guessed he could swing into an F5 tornado with the armor on and make it through to the other side without getting so much as a veered off course.

A combination of aerodynamics and ergonomics had him swinging through the immensity of the storm as easily as if he were tiptoeing through the tulips; it was a good thing too. As he and Harry drew ever closer and closer towards the Baxter Building, Spider-Man noticed that the silver-blue dots on his interface were rapidly blinking out.

"Jarvis, what's the story? Why are the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents disappearing from the HUD?"

"I'm not privy to that information, sir. But the sudden absence of a tracked entity on your interface suggests either a technological malfunction on their part, or cessation of life."

Spider-Man swallowed. "I'm praying that it's the former." Through the rain and the murk, he could see the dark shape of the Baxter Building...the too dark shape of the Baxter Building.

Looking upwards, Spider-Man saw Harry bring his glider to a halt in mid-air. Gritting his teeth, the hero fired a web to the nearest street lamp—which, he noticed with a feeling of dread—had gone dark as the rest of the block. He swung as high as he could and landed, crouched, on top of a billboard near Harry's glider.

"Jarvis, thermal vision. Like now."

The interface changed, showing Spider-Man a spectrum of color along the streets and buildings below.

His grip on the billboard faltered; his breath hitched in his throat. Through the pelting stream of the rain that fell in grey slats across his HUD, Spider-Man found himself looking at a landscape of twisted vines and webbing; tangles of the stuff, emanating a violent shade of purple on the thermal spectrum, stretched from building to building and across street lamps. Industry had transformed into alien biological matter, like a twisted jungle of grisly weeds and sinew-like string. And there, among the mass, were distinctly human shapes signatures...all of them cold.

"Oh god," Spider-Man whispered, looking away.

"Bad?" Harry asked, hovering several feet off.

"They're all dead," Spider-Man said in disbelief.

It seemed so incongruous to his calling as a hero. After all, he'd dallied with those seeking to cause death numerous times in the past, Adrian Toomes possibly being the worst of them. Yet he felt completely cold, and as if something sibilant and acrid were twisting through his guts. Carnage had plainly massacred her way through the S.H.I.E.L.D convoy, the disregard for life so flagrant that it bordered on sacrilegious.

"Not a chance in hell, hero."

Harry's voice pulled Spider-Man from the threatening maelstrom of his downward spiral. Perched on his glider, Harry observed the disorder below with his entire body in a grim stance; but he'd seen Spider-Man turn his head; seen the way he'd slackened his grip on the narrow frame of the billboard.

"You're not falling apart on me this close to the finish line. I get that you're bugged out and probably need about a week of sleep, but we can't let those two do this to the rest of the city."

Spider-Man nodded.

"Jarvis, can you check the Baxter Building for any other forms of life?"

"There are only three life forms detected, sir."

"Three?"

"Yes sir." The interface changed again, showing Spider-Man an X-ray scope of all the surrounding buildings. Through the skeleton of structure around him, he saw only three distinct forms-two of which were darting to and fro throughout the Baxter Building; the other was small and amorphous and slopping around the basement in what appeared to be some kind of holding tank.

"They got out," Spider-Man said in relief. "Reed and Ben and the Storm siblings."

"They evacuated the premises shortly after corresponding with Commander Fury, sir."

"That takes care of that problem," Harry said. "We go in, get the symbiote piece that they left behind and take it the eff word out of here. Somewhere far away."

"Siberia," Spider-Man suggested. He webbed a line, gave Harry a nod, and then swung through the oncoming rain towards the tangled webs and death that surrounded the Baxter Building. The scenery was positively alien, fungal and putrid to the sight. Spider-Man tried hard not to think about just what the vine-like substance was made of as he swung towards a visible window of the sixth floor.

Harry tossed a pumpkin bomb at the black and red webbing; Spider-Man let go of his web, went into a free fall for a moment and then shot a web back to the building just as the outward wall exploded.

Looking up through the rain, he called out, "Subtle!"

"Subtlety is Latin for boring," Harry replied, hovering near the gaping entryway he'd just left. Gesturing politely he said, "Age before insanity. Although given that little episode back there, you-"

Spider-Man's senses went haywire; quick as lightning he shot a sturdy web to the bottom of Harry's glider and yanked both it and the man astride backwards. A split-second later something red and black and lithe leapt from the cavernous hole in the Baxter Building.

Carnage snarled and fell for a moment before webbing herself to the side of the building.

"Oh come now!" She hissed. "I wasn't going to do him any harm! I just wanted to tear his ribcage out."

"Kinky," Spider-Man said. He nodded to Harry, who'd already righted himself midair. "Find Eddie," he said to his friend. "I'll deal with Scarlet O'Hara."

Harry grimaced and soared away; Carnage made to leap at her, but Spider-Man beat her to the punch, tangling her in the impenetrable webbing.

Carnage ran her long tongue around her mouth. Sinking her elongated fingers into the web, she tore the restraints apart as easily as if they were bed sheets.

"Such a treat to get to pull apart the flesh that sired you. Come on, Daddy Long Legs; I'm just dying for a family reunion. So were they for that matter. All those little lambs and the big dogs down there. They tasted so divine. And the boy—little Miles...I never had the pleasure, but tomorrow is another day."

Sickening rage coursed through Spider-Man. Abandoning all thought of making a plan, he launched himself at the symbiote. Carnage let out a half-shriek, half-laugh as the wall-crawler collided with her. Against the wall they fought, wind and rain pummelling down on them. Carnage was completely wild and unhinged, her movements frantic and lethal; but Spider-Man's senses were far superior to hers, his fighting instincts honed after years of heroics.

"Slippery little bug," Carnage snarled. "Always have to have it all your own way. Perfect life, perfect girlfriend. Perfect Peter Parker."

Spider-Man kicked Carnage square in the chest, sending her catapulting across the edge. She collided with the wall of the building in a feral crouch.

"Who are you?" Spider-Man yelled.

Carnage grinned; the symbiote receded from her face.

Spider-Man's eyes went wide.

"Carlie?"

"You were expecting Alice in Wonderland?"

He couldn't believe it; mousey, withdrawn Carlie Cooper-Kasady...but of course the symbiote had feasted on her—on the rage that he'd often seen in those watery blue eyes.

Still, numb with disbelief at the revelation, he couldn't help but utter a pitiful, "Why?"

Carlie stared at him as if he were the one who'd lost his mental faculties. "Why?" She roared over the howl of the wind and rolling thunder. "You want to know why?!" Something broken passed over her face for a moment; she looked at the tangled webs and vines of the street below. For a splintered second, Spider-Man thought the explanation would come. Then the red and black symbiote slithered over Carlie's face once more; she grinned like a demented Cheshire Cat and said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "Because I want to."

A lethal, two-foot long barb projected from her chest; Spider-Man jumped out of the way in the nick of time, but the projectile separated into a dozen small pieces. Pain coursed through his body as the spikes pierced his armor and through his skin, pinning him to the wall. The HUD flashed red; his vital signs going off the charts.

Through the pain he saw Carnage clear the distance between them, her white eyes narrowed in triumph, her mouth wide in a horrible rictus of a smile.

"I wonder how pretty you'll scream for me; maybe better than Mary Jane will once I show her what I choose to keep left of you."

Carnage trailed a finger along the chest of his suit.

"New threads make the man, but it takes a woman's touch to sever everything in him, don't you think? You'll be all red and squishy on the inside..."

Through the pain, Spider-Man's senses detected the overpowering presence of something powerful and hulking—something strong and filled with anger. Carnage's face fell; a moment later, corded black webbing enveloped her by the waist.

"Oh goddamn it," she muttered; she was sent spiralling through air, hundreds of feet away. Something thudded on the ground in front of Spider-Man, something black and towering.

Venom's eyes brimmed with something close to worry. He peered closely at the barbs stuck through Spider-Man's body.

"We're getting a little tired of your heroics," they said quietly. "But we knew you'd come anyway. Here, let us help you."

The barbs slipped from Spider-Man's body, filtering into Venom's skin. Spider-Man felt his skin and muscles begin to knit together as he healed.

"Th-thanks," he gasped. "Where-

"Looking for the _other_ other," Venom said. "She gave us a run for our money. Listen, we tried to save the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents but-

Spider-Man shook his head.

"It's alright, Eddie."

"Venom," the thing corrected. "We are one but separate."

Spider-Man stared at the thing that had once been his most cherished friend. He felt his mind splinter as an understanding like lightning shocked him to his very soul. Eddie was under the symbiote somewhere, stifled and twisted by its ravenous appetite for emotions. Spider-Man wanted to shred the foul, obsidian thing into nothingness—to bring it pain beyond any experienced by a living being. He'd only ever felt this kind of relentless need for blood twice before: once, when Harry had thrown Gwen to her death, and most recently when Otto Octavius had taken MJ prisoner on Christmas Eve. There was a person beneath that hulking skin, a beautiful, courageous, kind-hearted person who'd shown Peter nothing but patience and understanding even in the grips of both their darkest moments.

Slowly, Spider-Man touched the side of Venom's face with one gloved hand. Venom shuddered, their eyes closing as if that single touch had sent something warm through them.

Eddie had to be under there; Spider-Man wouldn't rest until he delivered him from the grasp of the symbiote.

Harry zoomed into view through the rain. "I hate to break up the love fest but-

A piercing scream split the air. Spider-Man and Venom both tensed and looked down from the ledge. Through his interface, Spider-Man saw the blurred figure of Carnage slithering out from the sewer grate.

"Who does she think she is?" Venom spat. "Pennywise?"

 _Maybe he's not as buried as I figured_ , Spider-Man thought.

"Three against one," Harry said, watching as Carnage galloped across the street on all fours like a stalking panther. "Should be an easy job, yeah?"

Spider-Man thought about Eddie, and about MJ. He had to fight, had to triumph for their sake and the sake of everyone that Carnage had killed.

Lightning illuminated the sky. Carnage crawled up the side of the Baxter Building like an immense, hellish spider.

Without a word to his allies, Spider-Man fell off the edge of the building, determined to meet the monstrosity head on.

* * *

Mary Jane had been awake for a grand total of eighteen hours. It was nearly ten at night—the storm had broken over New York City in all its fury; Manhattan Central had been attacked by an alien parasite monster, of which Eddie was now apparently one; Miles and Rio were both recovering from trauma after having nearly been killed by the scarlet alien, and she, MJ, was staring at her dead-eyed reflection in the ladies room mirror and considering leaving the man she loved.

She despised herself at that moment, loathed her weakness—her betrayal at even thinking such a thing. Yet eighteen hours straight of wakefulness, being pinned to the wall by alien sludge for the better part of forty-five minutes, and seeing her good friend shaking and screaming after being found bloodied in the cafeteria was too much. She was only human, despite the fact that she often wished herself to be more; and as such, her capacity to absorb traumatic events in succession had its limitations.

Aunt May had found her in Eddie's room and freed her from the black webbing with a fire axe. Aunt May, older and wiser, had kept her head together throughout the whole ordeal, barely batting an eyelash when Miles and Rio had been brought up.

So why not Mary Jane?

Why couldn't she keep it together? She'd seen worse, experienced worse, and yet here she was, in front of a faucet that had been spitting hot water for three minutes straight, and staring into her own blank eyes.

There was still somewhere she could go—her sister's, Aunt Anna's, Betty Brant's...hell, Flash Thompson would probably be over the moon if MJ suddenly shacked up with him. She could be normal, focus on herself, on the career she'd only tasted, and then lost as a result of Spider-Man.

She could tear Peter's heart out, and slowly squelch it between her fingers.

Hot tears blistered her eyes; she couldn't see anything, couldn't think beyond the choking self-loathing. She wanted a smoke, wanted to scream, wanted to hurt herself the way she'd done in those early days of adolescence when her father's abuse had grown to its zenith.

MJ thrust her fingers under the hot water and screamed, both in pain and a Valkyrie-like fury. She hated this, hated everything. She loved Peter so much that she hurt from it—that she always seemed to hurt from it. She hadn't signed up for this...

 _And neither did he…_

MJ gasped and tore her hand out from the hot stream of water. Whether it was a result of her emotional state, or her long wakefulness, or some kind of magic, she'd not only heard the words in her own head, but she'd pictured the person saying them so clearly that she was surprised to find the bathroom behind her empty.

The girl had been slender, fair of skin and with hair as blonde as pure honey. Eyes, big and glassy green, had stared soulfully at Mary Jane—knowingly.

MJ looked into her own reflection, feeling suddenly wide-awake.

"Thank you, Gwendy," she whispered.

Of course Gwen Stacy had been the one to make her see reason. She hadn't known Peter's first love, but the ghost had remained, lingering pleasantly on those days whenever Peter was off somewhere in his memory. MJ had never once resented the spectre of that wonderful girl—who wouldn't fall in love with Peter Parker after all?

She certainly had; so had Eddie for that matter.

Because he was kind and brave and smart and hurting but resilient and a complete dork, and he was hers goddamn it, and he hadn't asked for these alien vegetable plasma dickheads to come along and shred into his life—into _their_ life.

Shaking her head, MJ shut the water off, wincing at the blisters on her fingers.

"Lock it up, Watson," she said to herself. She wouldn't leave Peter, not if she ended up on a torture rack with her insides out. He needed her as much as she needed him—as much as they both needed Eddie, and at the moment her two men were in trouble. She wouldn't fall to pieces or go into hysterics, even if she wanted to claw her own skin off from lack of sleep.

Squaring her shoulders, Mary Jane left the bathroom, facing the world and the wreckage that the symbiotes had left behind.

Rio and Miles were both asleep in medium care, woollen blankets around them, sedatives pumping through their veins. Aunt May had taken active duty as their nurse, watching with that same steadfast resolve that Mary Jane only hoped she could achieve some day.

She knew she had to go to them at some point, but for the moment, she needed to be alone—needed to think.

The security guards had made it apparent that they weren't letting anyone out of the hospital until the NYPD gave the all clear. In the mist of a trance, she walked down the corridors to Eddie's room, not knowing why.

When she opened the door, it was to find that the room wasn't empty.

An incredibly beautiful woman with white flowing hair leaned against the window. Dressed in a leather ca tsuit with a dark denim jacket over her shoulders, she exuded a feline beauty and lethal grace. Given that her jacket was undone to show off her ample cleavage, MJ was scarcely surprised that she stopped and gawked in spite of her surprise at finding the woman in Eddie's vacated hospital room.

The woman looked at MJ, her luminous green eyes shining with mirth. With a tremor of recognition, Mary Jane realized that she'd seen this powerful, stunning woman before—running into _The Daily Bugle_ the previous Christmas during Doc Ock's attack.

"Hello nurse," MJ said in spite of herself.

The woman laughed, a noise that put Mary Jane in mind of a cat stretched out in a patch of warm sunlight. "Not the nurse tonight. Think of me as your Lyft driver _de la nuit_ , Mary Jane."

"And she knows my name. Either you're a fan of the theater or I have a stalker in skin tight leather."

"Not a stalker. And my flair for the stage doesn't really go beyond full frontal male nudity Off Broadway." She extended a hand. "Felicia Hardy. Also known as The Black Cat, kitty, kitten and Mistress...although that last one is usually only when Harry's been a very bad boy."

MJ arched a brow even as she took Felicia's hand. "Glad to see you recovered. Last time I saw you was on a gurney."

"Ugh. Doc Ock is so last year. We've got bigger kalamari to batter and fry tonight, Red. Sure you've met them—goopy, homicidal, Mister Sardonicus grin and Bette Davis eyes?"

"Unfortunately." Mary Jane glanced at Eddie's bed.

"I'm here to get you as far away from the action as possible. And before you start—" Felicia raised a glove; MJ had already started to protest- "I've had explicit instructions from your man to get you out of harm's way." Felicia indicated two motorcycle helmets by her feet. "I drop your perfect little posterior off in Queens and you stay there until this blows over."

"He's safe? Peter?"

Felicia smiled kindly. "Yes, baby, safe as houses. Well...I mean, he's not in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody any longer but he's still a little involved with our homicidal slimy friend over at the Baxter Building."

The balloon of relief in MJ burst as fast as it filled. "Pass," she said hotly. "He needs me to-

"Not get hurt." Felicia's eyes were far too understanding; MJ didn't know whether she wanted to slap her in the face or cry on her shoulder. "I get it, Mary Jane. You want to be there to make sure he makes it through. But what are you going to do? These things aren't like Doc Ock; they're not human entirely and they'll turn you into a shish-kabob without even thinking twice."

"Not Eddie," MJ said determinedly. "He would never hurt me or Peter."

"But Miss Congeniality might. Far be it from this little kitty to tell you what to do. But if you end up like Gwen Stacy how do you think that's going to affect Peter?"

MJ really did feel as if she could have hit Felicia for that. Not only was it a low blow, but she also knew that it was perfectly true. Her helplessness—her loathsome humanity—overwhelmed her. She paced in a circle, trying to discern a solution through the tumult of her mind. The storm outside the hospital raged on and on, positively shaking the glass in the window frames, pelting the building with rain and hail.

There was nothing to be done, MJ realized, and the thought filled her with a profound hopeless despair. She sank to the edge of Eddie's bed, burying her face in her hands. What was she, after all, but the superhero's girlfriend? She couldn't fight back against the symbiotes. But if only she were there, she could keep an eye and-and what? Watch Peter fight to keep her safe?

The mattress depressed as Felicia sat next to her. A moment later, Mary Jane felt the woman's strong, slender arm wrap around her shoulder.

Neither of them spoke, and Mary Jane felt a rush of gratitude and devotion for Felicia—for her silent acceptance of Mary Jane's breakdown.

Eventually, as she was prone to do, MJ pulled herself from the thick of the storm in her soul. She offered Felicia a weak smile.

"If anyone asks, you twisted my arm and made me go. Hell, you wrestled me to the ground until I gave in."

Felicia laughed. "Sure thing, Red. And when I relate it to Peter and Harry later I'll say that my top came off and we rolled through a vat of baby oil with lots of friction and moaning."

A powerful roll of thunder shook the hospital to its foundations. Felicia arched her brows. "Better get a move on and say your farewells. I'll be waiting with rings on my fingers and bells on my toes."

MJ found Aunt May still diligently holding watch over Rio and Miles. For one wild instant, all the steam left MJ's recently stoked engine; she couldn't leave when Rio and her son were still sleeping off their encounter with the symbiote.

"I can tell from the look in your eyes that I may not like what you're about to tell me," Aunt May said.

"Guilty as charged." Quickly, Mary Jane told Aunt May that she had a ride back to Queens. "I'll see if she can come back for you and them."

Aunt May shook her head. "They'll be out until dawn, Mary Jane. One of us needs to stay here and keep an eye on things."

"But what if-

"Mary Jane, this hospital is now locked down tighter than a drum. If Peter is really on the up and up, I doubt he'd let those things come back here of all places." She squeezed Mary Jane's hand supportively. "I'll be sound as a pound, honey. You need to go home and sleep."

Mary Jane throw her arms around Aunt May, feeling that there was every likelihood that she'd never see the woman again. "I'll call you as soon as I'm home."

"And the you'll go to sleep or I'll see to it that your life is thoroughly miserable from here on in," Aunt May said with a superior smirk.

Still, MJ hovered behind.

"Go," Aunt May said. "Now."

And so she went, returning to Eddie's room and the still waiting Felicia, feeling like a collared woman.

Felicia held out a sleek gray motorcycle helmet. "Your chariot awaits."

"And how are we going to get out of here with the place on lockdown? How did you even get in here?"

Felicia smirked, sliding the window open. "Through the pet door."

It was then that Mary Jane saw the grappling hook set into the stone of the hospital.

"Climb on," Felicia said, turning around. "I may not look like much, but there's no doubt in my mind that I can carry your weight."

So it was that Mary Jane found herself rappelling down the side of Manhattan Central on the back of a the Black Cat. The wind beat against them, threatening to upset their course more than once; but Felicia held firm against it. It was a credit to all the times Peter had taken her swinging that MJ didn't even feel the least bit nauseated or dizzy by the height and precarious tether Felicia had to the grappling hook.

They touched down, and Felicia hurried MJ towards a garbage bin.

MJ frowned, rain pouring over her. She instinctively clutched her shoulder bag closer to her, wondering if this might not be some kind of trap after all.

"Settle down, Red," Felicia said. She pressed at something hidden in her ear, and a moment later, the garbage bin disappeared, giving way to a sleek, black Harley Davidson motorcycle.

"I'm impressed," MJ said, trying hard not to shiver.

"And you'll be soaked to the skin by the time we get to Queens," Felicia said, tossing MJ her spare helmet. Felicia straddled the seat, pulling her own helmet over her face. She patted a spot behind her, and MJ climbed aboard, scooting as close to Felicia as she could and wrapping her arms securely around the other woman's waist.

"I don't mean to sound like a skeevy high school boy," Felicia said through her helmet, "but I won't object if you decide to cop a feel."

Despite herself, MJ chuckled.

The hog roared to life, and a moment later they were careening down dark, rainy, empty streets. The motorcycle bore them through the fury of the storm like a valiant steed; Mary Jane kept her eyes alert, scanning from side to side in case they happened to drive by Spider-Man or the symbiotes. But there was only darkness and storm; rain and sleet and garbage gripped mercilessly in the wind's cruel grasp.

Felicia took them from Manhattan Central to the Queensboro Bridge. As they drew near, MJ felt the motorbike slow to a steady crawl. Peering around Felicia's shoulder, she saw a thick blockade of police cars, armored trucks and orange barricade horses blocking the way to the bridge.

"Stay put," Felicia said as she slid from the bike. MJ watched, soaked to the skin, as Felicia approached the officers. After a moment's conversation, Felicia returned, and flipped the protection visor of her helmet up.

"We may be in a bit of a pickle. Those handsome pigs back there just happened to snort out that all the bridges out of Manhattan Island have been barricaded."

MJ stared at Felicia in disbelief. "For real?"

"For real. They're trying to keep the threat contained to the island...as if that'll stop it."

Looking grim, Felicia mounted the motorcycle and kicked away from the scene. Like a woman possessed, Felicia sped down FDR and towards Williamsburg. There was an even bigger blockade there than the previous one. MJ heard Felicia swear, even with the wind and rain howling all around them.

"We're trapped," she said, as if she couldn't believe it. "Brooklyn's bound to be just as heavily blocked off as these bridges; so is the Manhattan Bridge for that matter."

MJ pulled her helmet off. She watched Felicia, seeing the cogs in the other woman's mind turning. She didn't want to speak, didn't want to voice what it was that she wanted to do now—it was too insane, too dangerous, and exactly the opposite of what she knew she should have done.

Felicia glanced at her, rain pelting against her beautiful face. Her eyes narrowed; Mary Jane smiled guiltily.

"You're really not giving me any other option are you?"

"What else are we going to do?"

"I could knock your lights out and set you up in a hotel."

"Good luck explaining that to the front desk."

"There's safe houses I've used all over this city-

"And I'll escape from all of them no matter what you do and walk to the Baxter Building."

"You are a bully," Felicia griped. Then she sighed in defeat. "And I…am an enabler." She fixed MJ with a steely stare. "You keep your perfect little ass on this motorcycle, on the street, with my guns and shoot anything in the shape of a murderous gimp suit. You get me?"

MJ smiled, catching a pair of silver guns as Felicia tossed them her way. "I think I'm in lesbians with you."

"Let's not rule anything out," Felicia muttered. She jammed her helmet back on; the back of the motorcycle kissed the pavement as Felicia popped a wheelie that nearly sent MJ sprawling to the ground. The Harley ate road, and MJ held on for dear life, her heart hammering in her chest.

This was stupid, but she had to do something—even if it was just being there for him.

Besides, as she'd rightly told Felicia, there was really nothing else they could do.

The street-lights began to dissipate; darkness and rain swallowed them whole. MJ stared around as they approached the Baxter Building, her eyes wide. She hadn't been expecting this kind of nightmare. Everything on the block surrounding the building was covered in a thick layer of red and black vines, as if some hellish nature had reclaimed the concrete jungle.

They were getting nearer and nearer; Felicia slowed the bike to a crawl. Glancing around, Mary Jane noticed strange shapes on the street level—hulking shapes like vehicles buried in the strange alien weeds; and still other shapes, small and…human shaped…

MJ felt her skin crawl; she held the guns tighter, burying her face in Felicia's shoulder. But she wouldn't turn back, wouldn't run with her tail between her legs. She'd made the choice to come here of her volition, and she would stick it out no matter what.

Felicia drove them across the front block of the Baxter Building and to a nearby alley. She hopped off her bike, tossed her helmet off and gave MJ another stone-faced look.

"Remember," she said. "You stay here and shoot anything out to kill you."

"Yes sir."

"Bite me."

"You wish."

"I kind of do, actually." Then she fired her grappling hook upwards and disappeared into the rain.

Trying hard not to look at the hellish landscape less than twenty feet away from her, Mary Jane waited, keeping the guns gripped in both hands. Darkness and rain closed in around her; never in her life had she felt so alone, so vulnerable. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think of anything other than Peter and Eddie.

They had to be safe.

Glass shattered somewhere overhead; MJ started, and pointed both of Felicia's guns at the spot several stories up. A body fell through the rain, a pale skinned, naked, small body that landed on the street below.

MJ didn't move a muscle, not even as the crumple figure rolled onto its hands and knees. Through the rain, she could see the woman—see her rain slicked, mousey brown hair as she crawled across the concrete.

The woman paused, and then looked up with such abruptness that MJ nearly gasped. They were less than twenty feet away from each other. Slowly, a smile spread across the woman's face. The black and red of the surrounding ground consumed her, twisting her face into a demonic, wide-eyed visage.

MJ fired round after round as the creature lunged at her, but the bullets did nothing. The red and black monster seized her around the waist, launched them both into the air, and swung through the rain, screeching in victory.

 **A/N: Let me know what you think!**


	20. Sacrifice

Frozen, stinging air cut at Mary Jane's skin as the creature took her higher and higher through the night. Rain pelted against her body, soaking through her clothes; she could hear the monster's shrill, screaming laughter as it took her towards the roof of the Baxter Building. Dangling from her grasp by one arm, MJ had nowhere to look but down.

A full calendar year before hand, and she would likely have been numb with shock; she would have fainted or screamed, kicked and struggled and done something impulsive to break the symbiote's grasp.

Having made room in her brain for a significant amount of change in that time, Mary Jane wasn't about to fall into mindless hysterics. Gritting her teeth, she dug with one hand in the purse still tightly secured around her shoulder. She felt the small, plastic tube of the lighter she'd purchased earlier that morning, and found herself, for the first time in her life, thanking her lucky stars for her latent addiction to cigarettes.

Something fast and metallic zoomed several hundred yards away from the symbiote. Out of the corner of her eye, Mary Jane saw a caped and hooded man on a three-pronged glider…a glider that she recognized from the previous Christmas.

The symbiote swooped higher into the air. MJ looked down; they were just over the flat surface of the roof. Tongue between her teeth, she flicked the lighter's wick once, twice, three times until the spark caught. With a snarl, she held the sputtering flame to the alien's fingers, hoping for the momentary heat to break the symbiote's grasp.

What she hadn't been expecting was for the creature's red and black skin to suddenly pulp outwards; she certainly hadn't been expecting the oozey substance to splatter as if disturbed by hurricane force winds. One moment both MJ and the symbiote's host were flying through the air, dodging gunfire from the man on the glider; the next, they were both falling, the mousey haired host to the street below, and MJ towards the roof.

 _Oh, this is going to hurt_ , MJ thought. She let her body go limp, working against every instinct that told her to do otherwise. It would be a miracle if she didn't make it through the fall without breaking something, but at least she would live.

She waited for the impact, but the next moment, something grasped her by the back of her sweater and pulled her to a stable surface. Through her shut eyes, MJ felt the scenery around her and her rescuer moving, and the feeling of being mobile in the air while on solid ground made her stomach heave.

The cowled man held her close as his high-tech glider sliced through the air. They were going lower and lower towards one of the ledges of the Baxter Building; they tore through a massive hole that had been blown through the side of the brick and mortar of the framework. MJ's rescuer tapped at his ear—Mary Jane assumed that he, like Felicia, had some kind of communication device in his ear canal—and said, "Carnage is eating pavement again. I've got some precious cargo here, so make sure Spidey isn't doing his nut, 'kay kitten?"

The glider hovered on the spot for a moment, and then landed among the rubble of the demolished wall.

"That was some fancy falling," the man said as he set MJ on the ground. "And the fireworks? Impressive. You're a credit to your sex, if you'll pardon me sounding underhanded."

"Not at all," MJ said shakily.

The flipped his hood off, lifted his goggles and lower the cowl covering his mouth.

Mary Jane stared.

Harry Osborne had just saved her life.

"Trading in on the homicidal," he said casually. "Looks like someone is taking my crown, though."

A shriek cut the air. Harry tensed, a flicker of fear passing over his face. "Going to have to get you out of here," he said. "Probably should have been the one to fly you to Queens in the first place, but I won the luck of the draw in the looks department, not brains.

MJ felt her entire body tremble in angry revolt. She was so close now, so close to just seeing Peter, to knowing that he was safe. "But Spider-Man and Eddie—

"Pete's a little involved with our alien friend; and I'm guessing Eddie is that big, black Hulk cosplayer," Harry said, throwing his hood and goggles back on. "Look, I know how goddamn hard it is to be only human, but you're going to get hurt if you hang around here. At least let me drop you off at the nearest police blockade. Maybe you can get them to put their donuts down and call the National Guard…or a host of angels."

MJ ground her fingernails into her palms so hard that she drew blood. She wanted to cry in fury; a scream from the symbiote outside the building cut through her ire.

Harry was right; Felicia had been right. There was nothing for her to do here but get in the way.

Flicking his goggles down for a moment, Harry looked Mary Jane over with understanding gray eyes. He sighed, tugged a small, black pad out of his ear and tossed it Mary Jane's way.

"Take my commlink. I'll get Felicia to switch out with Peter and you can keep a tab on him."

MJ gripped the small piece of audio technology. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled over the building like a stampede of rampaging, heavenly bulls.

Harry was throwing her a lifeline, and it was the only one she had as it stood.

"Thank you," she whispered, and stepped onto the glider.

"Hang on tight, Mary Jane. I'd have a lot of people out for my blood if anything were to happen to you. And frankly, I'd be falling on my own sword before any of them got to me."

For the second time that night, MJ was born away from a possible reunion with both Peter and Eddie. She held tightly to Harry's waist as he took to the air once more. The soared out into the frenzy of the storm, wind battering the glider, rain searing into Mary Jane's face. The glider curved in a graceful arc, moving with the wind like some metallic bird riding thermals; Harry steered expertly, taking them gradually lower in a curving descent abreast of the Baxter Building. In between the intermittent flashes of lightning, Mary Jane saw figures crawling and swinging and leaping around the stone structure: she saw the massive, powerful limbs of the thing that Eddie had turned into, pursuing the lithe, scarlet shape of the murderous symbiote; she saw Felicia, deftly leaping and digging her claws into solid stone as she joined the fray.

And, as Harry drew closer and closer to the street, Mary Jane saw a figure in red and gold, swinging and grappling with the evil symbiote.

Relief flooded her, and before she could stop herself, she screamed Peter's name, the noise almost lost below another crack of thunder.

The armored Spider-Man looked round; so did the red and black symbiote. Her smile stretched, and she launched herself at Spider-Man, razor sharp nails slashing, a long, deadly tongue seizing Peter by the throat.

"NO!"

Harry whirled the glider around. MJ felt him growl, and the next moment the glider bore down towards the side of the building where hero clashed with villain. Harry retrieved something small from the belt around his waist, and tossed it at the spot where Spider-Man fought with the symbiote. The symbiote pinned Spider-Man to the wall; MJ saw Felicia and Eddie both making towards both alien and hero; with one free hand, the symbiote seized the small, orange orb and tossed it back at Harry.

Harry swooped downwards, but was not fast enough to be rid of the blast radius. Fire erupted in a searing sphere; Harry's glider crashed through the nearest window of the fifth floor. MJ went tumbling from the glider, sliding across a vast expanse of floor until she hit something hard and glassy.

The sound of metal scraping against linoleum filled the air. Harry's glider collided with something that sent painful vibrations through the air. Arms weak, Mary Jane pushed herself off the ground, trying her best to get her bearings. They were in an immense, high-ceilinged room straight out of a science fiction film. Shaking, MJ turned and found herself face to face with an immense, glass tube that went from floor to ceiling. And there, in the middle, surrounded by mellow purple light, was a plexiglass container, with what looked like a blob of living tar moving frantically to and fro within it.

Another piece of the symbiote.

Someone groaned from the shadows; MJ looked around and saw Harry, blood oozing from the side of his head, crumpled in a heap near a lab bench. Ignoring the contained alien substance, MJ hurried toward Harry, trying to rouse him. He'd hit the edge of the workbench with his temple, but he'd live.

MJ barely had time to register the sheer incongruity of her worry for the man who'd killed Peter's first love when yet another feral scream sounded from nearby; MJ's skin prickled with a sixth sense for danger.

The crimson symbiote burst through the shattered window, her eyes wide, her smile horrible and victorious.

MJ crouched, and scurried behind the workbench. Blindly, she fumbled through the wreckage around her for something, anything to repel the monstrous bitch walking with easy footsteps across the rubble-strewn ground.

Where were Peter, Eddie and Felicia? Had the alien gotten the jump on them? Bloody images flashed behind MJ's eyes, and she bit her lip, refusing to fall into the maelstrom of assuming he absolute worst.

MJ's fingers closed over the smooth, cylindrical base of a blowtorch. She pulled the implement off the bench and peered around the corner, watching and waiting as the symbiote approached.

Only the alien didn't seem to be paying the slightest attention to her, or to Harry. She was walking slowly towards the great Plexiglass tube in the middle of the lab, her eyes wide, her lips parted. The expression on her face was positively reverent, and it made Mary Jane sick to her stomach.

The symbiote touched a long-fingered hand to the outside of the containment tube; MJ could just see the black fragment straining against its confines, as if desperate to return to the bosom of its mother.

"Hush little baby," the symbiote whispered. "Momma's here now. Oh, so beautiful. Yes…separate…outmatched…it's not fair. Always alone…but we don't have to be alone…it would bring us closer together…in here...with us…" She sighed, as if her heart had been mended by an act of love.

Harry stirred on the ground, groaning as he regained consciousness; MJ gripped the blowtorch tightly, willing herself to move, to strike—to set the scarlet horror ablaze once more before it took what it needed.

Plasmatic white eyes shifted in the direction of the workbench where MJ hid. The symbiote smiled, and slid its fingers from the containment tube; sharp nails scratched against the Plexiglass as the monstrosity strode leisurely away from her prize.

"Two little piggies," she said to herself. "The three little piggies out in the scary storm are going to be here any second now to give the big, bad wolf a good thrashing." The symbiote paused, feet from where Harry lay groaning in the shadows, and made a show of inhaling. Her grin widened; her nails elongated, and she licked her lips with a sibilant tongue. "Here piggy, piggy, piggy."

It took all the courage Mary Jane could muster, but she launched herself from behind the workbench; flame erupted from the end of the blowtorch, scorching the air. The red symbiote screamed and leapt backwards, clinging to the outside of the containment tube.

MJ stood, still holding the blowtorch in front of her like a heavenly sword.

"Oh, it's you," the symbiote spat. "It's _you_."

MJ sent another spout of flame the monster's way; the symbiote jumped to another spot on the tube, looking like a mother protecting her young.

"Always you," she hissed. Her tongue shot out and wrapped around the wrist holding the blowtorch; MJ squirmed and struggled, and the next second felt the ground disappear as the alien flung her halfway across the lab. She hit the wall and slid to the floor, stars dancing behind her eyes and her only weapon rolling away into the shadows.

The symbiote jumped to the ground and strode forwards. The scarlet and obsidian of her face melted away, and MJ found herself starring at…

"Carlie?"

Carlie laughed. "They're always surprised." Carlie's arms extended and thickened like tree trunks; the sunk into the wall either side of MJ's head, keeping her pinned. "Surprised when they see me, surprised when they die. This would be the time when I spill the beans to you about my master plan, but…well, I'm swinging wild and just 'tween us girls…I really, really hate you, and I'm going to enjoy tearing your intestines out yard by yard and—

Carlie froze, and whirled around; the symbiote covered her face once more, and her arms retracted by instinct. MJ's eyes widened as she saw Harry's glider, moving by some form of remote control through the air, directly at Carlie's head.

Wasting no time, MJ scampered away, heading for the only exit. Carlie seized the glider in a vine of red and black webbing and whirled it over her head like a demonic lasso.

Glass shattered; Eddie's hulking black and white form swing into the opposite end of the corridor, looking like a messenger of the furious storm raging outside.

Time stood still; MJ looked from Eddie back into the dark lab at the same time that Carlie let go of her tether on Harry's glider; it sliced through the air directly Mary Jane's way.

Mary Jane waited for the lethal impact.

She wondered what it would feel like, to have the sharp metal projections of the glider tear through her body; through her ribcage and her vitals. She saw her life dangling on a fragile millimeter of thread, all the triumphs and losses and tragedies.

She saw Peter and Eddie and Aunt May and Rio and Miles and all her old cast and crew left alone and grieving.

And then a figure blurred her vision; the ground shook as Eddie bore down from behind, saving grace came from in front of Mary Jane—came in the form of a man in a cape and cowl, a man who seized her by the shoulders and tossed her to the side with all his might.

A man not fast enough to stop the glider from impaling itself through the middle of his body.

It happened so fast; MJ blinked, and she was on the floor of the lab and Harry Osborne was impaled on the wall across from her on his own glider—the glider that he'd used to try and save her from this hell of a battle. MJ stared, ignoring Carlie's shriek of victory, not registering as Eddie thundered passed her and launched himself at his scarlet suited nemesis.

All she saw was Harry, and the blood and the grisly death.

Sound returned with a violent vengeance, the screams and snarls and crashes and thunder all but deafening. Mobility shook through Mary Jane's limbs; she got to her feet without knowing how she found the strength; her eyes wide, her gaze unblinking, she stumbled to the wall. If she could reach him, she could save him; he was good, after all, and good people didn't die this way. There was some way to save him, some way to repay him for having tried to save her—for _having_ saved her.

The glider slowly retracted from Harry's body and fell with dead, cold weight to the ground. MJ reached Harry just as he fell limply to earth; she caught him— _where was this strength coming from? Why wasn't she insane yet_ —she caught him and held him, feeling his blood and his ragged breathing.

"Oh God," Mary Jane gasped while two alien behemoths clashed in the lab behind her. "Oh God, no—Harry, c'mon we have to—

Harry gasped, blood spilling from his mouth. MJ half-dragged him into the corridor beyond the lab. She had to find Peter, because Peter was the hero, and he was always there before anything terrible happened.

 _Why_ , she thought as her strength gave out near the shattered windows, _why am I always getting blood on my hands?_

"Harry, please—

Tears slid down her face as she stared at his paling skin.

Harry smiled, and held a trembling, bloody hand to Mary Jane's cheek.

"Don't cry little lady," he breathed.

"Why?" MJ wailed. "Why did you do it?"

"Had to...had to do it…had to save…important people…"

"No," MJ shook her head violently. "No, no, no!"

A faint ghost of a smile on his lips, Harry let his hand fall to his side; his blood pooled around MJ's knees; the light in his eyes dimmed as they stared ever upwards in death.

Mary Jane screamed, the sound of it deafening in the corridor.

She heard footsteps sound from the staircase nearby, but did not look back. She hated this, hated that a man had died to save her as a result of her pathetic humanity; hated that she had to be the damsel, had to be the Achilles heel. She hated Carlie Cooper, hated the alien symbiotes; hated Peter for being a hero, Eddie for being an alien and every last man, woman and child on earth for not being there in that bloody hallway to help.

With trembling fingers, she tore Harry's belt from his bloody body and rose to her feet, not even bothering to turn back when she heard two horrified gasps behind her.

Her hatred carried her down the corridor and back to the lab; Eddie had Carlie pinned against the wall, pummeling into her with his fists. But it wouldn't suffice—simply beating the insane bitch from Hell into submission wouldn't do a thing because she was evil and she would always come back, always take and take and take.

With a snarl, MJ seized several of the small, orange bombs from Harry's belt. Without breaking her stride, she crossed the room, and began tossing the bombs through the air at the wrestling alien beings. She didn't think of the black hulking symbiote as Eddie—it was only a thing standing between Mary Jane and bringing pain to Carlie Cooper-Kasady. Fire exploded in the lab, great balls of it erupting, catching Eddie and Carlie in the middle. Carlie screamed and screamed, red and black symbiote splattering away, and still MJ threw the explosives until there was nothing left.

Carlie's human body fell to the ground; Eddie buried her to the neck in black webbing, his own white eyes narrowed in fiery hatred. And still, relentless fury pumped through Mary Jane's body; she was fully prepared to stagger forward and rend Carlie's skin from her bones with her bare hands...

Sturdy, sticky webbing seized her around the waist. A great force pulled her back and whirled her around to face a knight in red and gold, a knight whose helmet was down, showing the face of a broken, still fighting man—a man with kind, hardened eyes and lips that had soothed away demons and promised the world.

Peter crushed MJ to him, his arms wrapping around her and holding her close. His body shook beneath the hard carapace of his armor—he reeked of sweat and blood and grime, but he was hers and he was here and he was crying just as hard as she was, but he was here, goddamn it.

All she'd ever wanted—the universe, _her_ universe, holding her in his arms.

The hatred shattered like a falling icicle on concrete, leaving a profound weakness in its wake.

"I'm sorry," Peter said into MJ's ear, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, baby."

Too weary and broken to speak or even bother correcting him the way that she used to, MJ held on for dear life. All she thought of was his arms, his breath and his body; she needed him, because who else but Peter Parker had the power to pull a person from such a bloody tower of vengeful rage? Who else but Peter Parker could chase away the shadow of a encroaching trauma and send it packing to the depths? He was the strength and refuge that she needed, and he was just as fallible and needed her—needed her as much as they both needed Eddie Brock. And he was here, comforting her, consoling her even though he was the one who'd just lost yet another friend to the evils in the world.

When the threads of Mary Jane's mind began to stitch themselves back together, she looked into Peter's own tear-stained, grimy face.

Yes.

He was here, but he was barely hanging on.

A pathetic sob made them both turn round.

Eddie—the mountainous, dark thing he'd become—stood over the tangle of thick webbing binding Carlie Cooper to the ground. Carlie was crying, her face broken and her lips quivering.

"No more," she wailed. "I can't take anymore. It's hurting me; it's eating me alive. Please, somebody kill me. I don't want to do this anymore; I don't want it to use me anymore."

Eddie turned his eyes to Spider-Man as the hero walked forward, his mask protecting his face again.

"Please tell us that you're not buying this for a can of peanuts," Eddie hissed. "After the run around she gave us all—after the people she killed…"

"It's eating her, Venom," Spider-Man said thickly; MJ hung back, glancing between the two men she loved, willing herself to believe that there truly was something of Eddie beneath all that alien skin and muscle. "I know what that feels like better than anyone."

"Peter," Carlie breathed, and MJ wanted to rip the abominable woman's tongue out for daring to say his name. "Please, I can't take it; it's twisted me…the things it's made me do."

"She's _lying_ ," the creature called Venom seethed.

And Mary Jane found herself inclined to agree. There was a sense beyond her despising of what Carlie had become that made her understand that her tears and pleas, convincing as they looked, were all a sham.

Spider-Man stopped in front of the mountain of web; Carlie head was the only thing visible, and she looked truly pathetic, her eyes streaming as she stared at Spider-Man.

 _Kill her_ , MJ found herself thinking. _Please, Tiger, don't do the honorable thing this time. Or let Eddie—Venom—do it if you don't want to bloody your hands._ Mary Jane's own hands, covered in Harry's blood, shook at the thought.

Glass shattered, and all four looked around.

MJ gasped.

They'd all forgotten about Felicia.

The slinky thief's black clothes were torn in places, likely from the battle that Mary Jane had missed. Blood stained her catsuit and her snowy white hair; and her face was disturbingly, terrifyingly, blank as she shattered the Plexiglass containment tube with her gloved hands.

Mary Jane knew exactly what Felicia was going to do, because it was something that she would have done herself had it been Eddie or, God forbid, Peter who'd been killed at Carlie's hand.

Felicia's green eyes met MJ's as she hovered between the inner chamber of the containment cylinder, and the emptiness there turned Mary Jane's marrow to ice.

"Felicia," Spider-Man said warningly, forgetting all about Carlie. "Felicia, no…"

Venom took several tentative steps forward; from the corner of her eye, MJ saw a demonic smile spread across Carlie's face. Red and black slithered over her skin; she was putting herself back together again, but MJ was too horrified at what Felicia was about to do to speak.

Without so much as even blinking, Felicia shattered the smaller containment box that held the last piece of the symbiote. The black slime launched itself at her like an eager dog greeting a long-absent master.

The symbiote slithered up Felicia's body, sinking into material that already caressed her like a second skin. A thousand yard stare met the horrified looks of Mary Jane, Spider-Man, and Venom; then it settled on Carlie, already reformed and breaking through the confining cocoon of Venom's webbing.

Felicia smiled as the symbiote completely consumed her, leaving her body sleek black with a rippling shock of white splintering from her chest outwards. But most horrifying of all was what the alien mass did to her once beautiful face; where once had been strong beauty was nothing but a wide, many-toothed mouth like a shark's. The pristine white of Felicia's hair writhed in a mass of liquid tentacles that thrashed to and fro.

The beast turned its eyeless gaze to Carlie, smiled and then let out a manic scream. Felicia's hair whipped at Venom, Spider-Man and MJ as she launched herself forwards, seized Carlie by the shoulders and tumbled through the wall of the lab and out into the stormy night.

Gasping, MJ hurried towards the ruined wall, and stared through the rain and darkness. Felicia and Carlie hit the concrete; Carlie launched herself into the air and away on the tendrils of her red and black webbing; shrill, alien screams filled the night as Felicia followed, setting hell loose on New York City.

 **A/N: When I first cooked up this sequel, I was planning to have Felicia die and Harry go on the warpath. But then I remembered how many heroes' girlfriends get shoved into refrigerators as a plot device and decided to switch it up.**

 **There's still one last leg of the race—but after that things will start looking up.**

 **Let me know what you think!**


	21. Mania

The hunt coursed through Felicia's blood as she chased down the foul monstrosity. New York City turned into a blur of buildings and streets; rain pelted down from a sky thick with ugly clouds; forked lightning splintered the darkness of the storm; wind howled, bending trees and making light posts shake. But it was nothing compared to the torrid bloodthirsty in the Black Cat's body.

She was

 _ravenous, starving, gaining, hungry, better, faster_

gaining on the thing that had taken Harry from her—could taste the monstrous essence of it against the second skin now living and breathing on her body.

The red and black monster swung and leapt gleefully through the hurricane force of the rain and wind. Felicia followed, propelled by her rage and desire for

 _revenge, blood, death, unity,_

justice. The lights of Penn Station shone like ever-staring eyes of the dead from below. Still singing madly and laughing wildly, the monster called carnage spun round on a line of webbing. She landed on one of the street lamps nearest the station and grinned as Felicia pulled herself to a stop, letting her line of dark black web go.

Felicia could feel the

 _evil, intent, hatred, rage, blood thirst,_

almost familiar aura that Carnage's skin exuded. A part of her wanted nothing more than to tackle the beast to the ground and gorge herself on its very essence. It would bring them together, unite them—she would be stronger and better and

 _united, whole, one, us,_

prime for revenge against not only the thing that had taken her love and her life from her, but against everything in the world.

Carnage licked her lips and leaned forward on the light post.

Snarling, Felicia lashed out with the tangle of the long, lethal tendrils sprouting from the top of her head. Carnage leapt backward but landed once more on her perch.

"Oh, let's not fight!"

Felicia launched herself across the space between them, her body coiled like a snake. She collided with the light post, splitting it in half as if it were nothing but a mere twig. Carnage fell through the rain, and Felicia wasted no time in seizing her with her tendrils.

Shrieking, Carnage rolled over. Pain coursed through Felicia's body as spines erupted from Carnage's skin. Relinquishing her grasp, Felicia rolled backwards and crouched, training all her senses on the red and black beast before her.

"Didn't you feel it?" Carange hissed. "The oneness. We could be together if you'd let me. We could make such beautiful devastation together. All the little mice on the streets running and screaming; us painting the town red with their blood and guts. And the screams—you have no idea."

"There's only one scream I want to hear." Felicia sprang at Carnage. Fury was singing within her skin and blood; she'd never felt so powerful, so energized—so enraged. She would flay Carnage's skin from her body, rend her in two—make her feel just a fraction of the pain that she herself felt.

"Suit yourself." Carnage fired another barb. Felicia dodged, but a moment later felt pain course through her body as the projectile split into several smaller pieces.

Carnage laughed and jumped into the air. She carried herself on webs towards the front of Penn Station. Without missing a beat, Carnage smashed through the class front of the train station.

Felicia screamed.

She wouldn't fail. She wouldn't be made a victim of. She had to avenge Harry had to

 _kill, tear, destroy, stop, stop us, hurting, burning, acid, help me,_

be faster and stronger.

The symbiote coating her body pushed Carnage's barbs outward; Felicia felt it through her own skin and bones but did not care—did not let herself dwell on the pain.

She tore through the shattered window left by her murderous quarry. Screams and gunfire reigned in the confined space of the front foyer. Felicia could feel the death and the terror against her skin like a bombastic blast of sound. There were people here, terrified people and their screams were

 _horrible, frightening, stop, please, not this, want to leave, want to go, separate_

so perfect to her in her blinding rage. What did they know of pain? What did they know of fear, these so-called brave men and women of New York City? Following the sounds of bloody chaos towards the station proper, Felicia saw the blood and the chaos. Police officers bodies, steaming and bleeding and freshly killed, they strewn along the floor. She felt the life ebb from several of them, and although something within her—something beyond the capacious thirst for revenge—told her to stop and help. Someone reached out for her, the contact searing and chilling at the same time. In her mind's eye, Felicia saw the police officer's life—saw their triumphs and failings—saw their mistakes and the times they stopped and frisked people with no merit.

She looked at the bleeding heap on the ground and growled, kicking their beseeching grasp away.

She didn't care. She wouldn't let herself care. What justice did these people stand for when so, so many were left scrambling and hurting and confused?

She

 _burning, hurting, searing, stop it, save us, remove us_ ,

strode through the sea of the dead towards the station platform where the solitary trains stood like effigies to industry. Rain and hail pelted the glass enclosed ceiling high overhead. All at once the lights flickered and died, but Felicia could see and hear and feel farther with her new skin than she ever had before.

The air overhead vibrated as something sleek and lethal swung through it—something that was gorging itself on blood and decay.

"You're nothing." Carnage's voice sounded like a whisper of hell itself.

Grimacing against her own fear, Felicia leapt to the roof of the nearest train, the writhing tendrils on her head moving to and fro as Carnage continued to scuttled in the shadows of the train station.

"You were never anything until he came along."

"And what were you?" Felicia fired back. She saw the red and black figure crawling along the arched walls. She fired several of her own lethal barbs with the rapidity of a Tommy gun. Carnage screamed and toppled to the top of one of the trains further down the row.

"Got my tongue there," Carnage said. "But this isn't a he. It isn't a she. It's a power and we let it live. You're not so innocent or just as you'd like to think, or you'd have stopped to help all the little piggies that squealed on my way down here."

"This is between the two of us." Felicia propelled herself across the rows of train roofs, Carnage in her sights. The red and black symbiote did not move, did not dodge to the side.

Something primal in Felicia told her to back down. But all she saw was Harry, and all she thought was Harry and all she felt was Harry. How he'd worked so hard to make amends for all his mistakes; how they'd augmented something beautiful out of the trauma of their twisted relationship. And what would Carnage understand about that? What would even Peter and Mary Jane, with their perfect, Sweet Valley High, romance understand about that? About the tears and the fights and the doubts?

She didn't care if Carnage killed her—she would go down swinging and scratching as she always had in the past.

But Carnage remained resolute as Felicia collided with her. Once more the prickling feeling of unity coursed along the skin of the symbiote, a feeling both repellent and utterly attractive.

Together, Felicia and Carnage crashed through the roof of the train. They fell amidst glass and steel to the aisle in the passenger car, Felicia clawing and snapping her jaws at Carnage. Her tendrils flailed, constricting the other symbiote at the throat and wrists, keeping her prone as she beat with evil bitch with every last ounce of rage she possessed.

She kept Harry's face in her reddened vision as she rained almighty fury down on the thing that had once been a human being. All she saw was Harry as he'd been to her—arrogant at their first meeting, calculating and damaged; she saw him crippled by the goblin's disease; saw him screaming and writhing at her; she saw him cured, saw him sobbing for forgiveness when they reunited.

She saw him pinioned to a wall, bloody and mangled as his own glider protruded from his body.

 _No._

Felicia faltered. She couldn't get the image out of her head. But she hadn't even been there, hadn't seen his life snuffed out.

Panting with the exertion of her rage, she looked down at the mass of Carnage's face.

Slowly, the filmy whites of her eyes opened. She smiled, and her long, sibilant tongue lapped at the side of Felicia's face.

They were connected, through the contact of their fight and Felicia's own tendrils.

"What's the matter, kitty cat?" Carnage breathed. "Bad memories?"

Felicia screamed in rage, her mouth extending wider than she ever through it could go. She roared in Carnage's face, but this wasn't the sybmiote defeated by sound. Fire was Carnage's bane; sound waves were Venom's.

Carnage only laughed. The red and black of her flesh began to slid over Felicia's own body, overwhelming her with images and memories that were not her own. She struggled as she drowned in Carnage—in the pain and the anger and the devastation she'd caused. Felicia's own symbiote struggled and screamed in

 _pain, agony, torment, stop, make it, stop, please, free us, release us, release us_

"He was such a fool." Carnage's voice came from all around—from the sides and below and above. Felicia couldn't see through the flashes of vivid memory and intense emotional trauma. "Sacrificing himself for somebody else."

"It…was…brave!" Felicia half-screamed as she stumbled through this tightening oblivion. She didn't know if she was still over Carnage's body, only that there was nothing around her bed crimson and darkness and horrible, terrible screaming.

"Brave?" Carnage sighed. "I suppose so. But what does bravery get any of us, kitty cat? Bravery is just stupidity masked with selflessness. Do you really think Mary Jane was worth his life? Do you really think someone so pitiful and human was worth the life of someone who'd fought and given so much?"

It felt as if someone had forced a cauterizing knife into Felicia's skill. She cowered, feeling ever particle of her being shake in dread and pain. She wanted it to stop, wanted it to be over. Carnage as right—of course Carnage was right. Mary Jane was a useless human—a pitiful damsel in distress, and she lived and Harry was gone because—

"NO!"

Somehow Felicia tore through the drowning sensation of despair. Her vision swam and every last fiber of her being ached with the force of breaking free. She surfaced, and found herself huddled in the corner of the passenger car.

Carnage stood several feet away, her symbiote skin rippling as if disturbed by hurricane winds. The creature cocked her head to the side; her chest rose and fell as if she'd run hundreds of miles.

"Well, well, well," she panted. "There's more to you than just pretty paws and a thirst for blood. I'd admire that if you weren't such an obstacle."

In the daze of resurfacing, Felicia wasn't sure if the ground was even beneath her anymore. She got shakily to her feet, uncoiling like a cheetah.

Yes.

The train was moving. Only to her knowledge there wasn't anybody aboard to operate it.

Carnage smiled, displaying her rows of lethal sharp teeth. Felicia looked down the symbiote's pulsing body and saw that there were lines of red and black, thin as thread, criss-crossing into the floor of the train like a living circuit line.

"I'm full of surprises."

She stepped towards Felicia, leaving her own biological mass behind.

"The question is," Carnage went on, "are you strong enough to stay alive until we reach the end of the line?"

Felicia flexed her symbiote, focusing all her attention on the murdering monster before her.

Claws distended at the end of her fingers, long enough to rival Carnage's own.

Carnage smiled.

"Ooh, this is going to be fun."

* * *

They covered Harry with one of the gray tarps in the lab. The entire time, Spider-Man felt as if he were walking in a dream with a nightmare whispering in his ear. The whole lab seemed hazy, and every noise—from his own footsteps to the roaring storm beyond—came to him from some great distance.

Before he covered the bloody remains of his friend's body, he forced himself to look at Harry's face.

There's was a tangled history—complicated and fraught, written in betrayal and death. But there had been hope and promise at the end, as well. He'd found it in himself last Christmas. When the opportunity had presented itself to avenge Gwen—to get Harry when he was at his most vulnerable—Spider-Man had turned the opportunity down. He'd taken the high road and released Harry from the grips of the Green Goblin. In doing so, he'd given Harry the chance to redeem himself.

But not like this.

Never like this. He shouldn't have died to redeem himself in Spider-Man's eyes. Looking at his former best friend's lifeless face, Spider-Man realized that he'd let go of his hatred after that bloody Christmas Eve. It shouldn't have happened this way—not at the cost of his life.

His hands shaking, Spider-Man covered Harry's face and turned away.

"Jarvis…" The sound of his face almost scared him—deadened and hollow from exhaustion so profound that it made him want to die.

"Sir?"

"Is S.H.I.E.L.D. doing anything about this?"

"I'm afraid the hurricane has made it too difficult for them to arrive safely, sir. My present calculations predict that the storm will pass by early morning, but until then…"

"Tell them that there's another casualty in the Baxter Building."

"Yes sir."

He let the mask of his armor slip away as he walked back into the wreckage of the lab. The suit felt too heavy on his own skin—a perfect testament to the mantle of his heroism. He longed for the days when he'd donned a simple suit of his own design—when he'd been careless and young; when the monsters had been simple.

He looked from MJ, crouched in the corner with her arms around her legs and her knees drawn up to her chin, to Eddie—no, not Eddie, Venom now. Tall, powerful and black as night, Venom stood a few feet away from Mary Jane, their face that impassive mask of symbiote skin.

They were his—people he loved. And they were slipping away in Eddie's case, or tainted by the dangers of the life he'd exposed them to. No matter what Aunt May said to the contrary, mere exposure to Spider-Man ultimately proved fatal. He was a veritable Typhoid Mary, and there was nothing he could do make it stop.

He wanted to be Peter Parker. He wanted to sleep, wanted MJ and Eddie to be with him.

The mask of his armor slipped away as he sank to the floor, feeling as if he were alone in a vast plane of hostile darkness.

Harry was gone; Felicia and Eddie were twisted by the symbiotes, and Mary Jane…she'd endured for much for him, there was no chance she'd stay by his side.

Not after this.

He was too weary to stop himself from crying. He knew it was futile—he could flood Brooklyn with the depth of his sorrow and despair and it would never bring him peace—it hadn't brought his parents back, hadn't brought Captain Stacy or Gwen back and it wouldn't bring Harry back.

It wouldn't strip him of the mantle of Spider-Man.

He buried his head in his hands, his body wracked with sobs.

Something warm touched the side of his face—something strong and human.

He looked up and saw Eddie kneeling next to him. He'd let the guise of Venom slip to his waist, leaving the bareness of his skin and face exposed. Shuffling his body so that he sat next to Peter, Eddie put his arm around him. Peter was too simultaneously exhausted and relieved to do anything other than let his head drop to the sturdy support of Eddie's shoulder.

Soft padding footsteps alerted him to MJ's presence. She crawled across the floor like a puppy until she too came to rest, putting her head in Peter's lap.

Between the solid, strength of Eddie's body and the warm, resilience of MJ, Peter felt some of his deeper fears skirt—as if a ray of sunlight had cut through the darkening night around him. Absently, he found himself threading his fingers through Mary Jane's hair, and felt a rush of satisfaction when she snuggled in closer to him.

Eddie pressed his lips to Peter's temple.

"I'm still here, kiddo," he whispered. Peter saw Eddie's opposite hand slowly stroking MJ's face. "I always will be."

Peter crooked his head under Eddie's chin. "I know."

"And I'm not going anywhere either," Mary Jane whispered, her warm breath playing pleasantly across Peter's lap. "Y'know, Aunt Anna used to say something whenever things came out of left field and knocked me in the jaw."

Peter chuckled, the softness of MJ's hair and the weight of both her and Eddie against him feeling like the world's most comfortably security blanket. "Did she say that life is like a box of Xanax?"

"Besides that," MJ said with half a laugh. "She used to look me in the eye and say, 'I get that you're hurting. But there's going to come a time when you'll realize that you're still alive, and that you're still sane. That's more than enough reason to keep going, don't you think?'"

"Wise woman," Eddie said softly. His chin was still resting on Peter's head, and the vibration of his voice—that rumbling, warm voice with its soft Brooklyn accent—was like a lullaby in Peter's ear.

Still, he felt too exhausted to want to move—too right with these two beautiful, dependable people next to him. This was home, he realized—and it was one of the many, many things worth fighting for. It wasn't just about the world or New York City now. He knew Carnage wouldn't rest until she'd torn everything in Peter's life to shreds.

It was personal this time—a vendetta not against Spider-Man, but against Peter Parker, and he wasn't going to let her get away with it.

But for now, he let himself be still. Let himself be held by Eddie and hold MJ in turn.

The rain and wind beat against the Baxter Building, the tumult of nature's fury fading into a gentle decrescendo. The storm was going to pass in a matter of hours, and Peter was sure that the city would remain on lockdown.

He looked into Eddie's eyes, and saw the resolve there. He'd so often thought that the steely gray of Eddie's eyes was indicative of how hard his soul—but that wasn't the case. In as much as the stormy green of Mary Jane's eyes could also be serene as the surface of the ocean and warm as spring blossoms, Eddie's eyes were haunted and hard, but also kind and just—solid and dependable and sheltering as ancient stone.

"We're going to kick her ass," Eddie said softly.

Peter nodded.

MJ, seeming to take some kind of vocal cue, sat up and stretched like a cat. She gave him a brave smile and then wrapped one arm around Peter and the other around Eddie.

"My heroes," she whispered as she pulled them close.

Peter chuckled, kissed her softly, and got to his feet. "And as heroes, we're about to do the dumb thing and go often the homicidal alien."

"We're a regular bunch of Sigourney Weavers," MJ said.

Eddie stood, helped Mary Jane to her feet, and worked out a kink in his neck muscles. Peter was inwardly thankful that Eddie hadn't let the Venom symbiote overtake him for the time being, although he figured that cool air didn't feel exceptionally pleasant against Eddie's bare chest.

"Ripley knew where the Xenomorph was, baby." Peter stared at the dark, mullioned windows. "Carnage could be anywhere between here and the Jersey Shore."

"Don't get too pessimistic," MJ said. "I think I've got an idea of what she's trying to do…although that's not exactly a thought to lead to restful sleep and deep meditation."

"So she and Felicia aren't just going out for some frozen yogurt?" Eddie sighed.

" 'Fraid not. When I was in here before…before she attacked…she was talking to that blob in the containment tank over there. She said that she wanted to be reunited with something more—that she didn't want to be outnumbered."

Peter felt his heart sink.

"She's wants to renew her vows," he said.

Eddie's jaw clenched. "But nobody knows what happened to Cletus Kasady after the attempted breakout the other day."

"There's one way to find out," Peter said. He let his mask cover his face once more, hating the claustrophobia of it. "Jarvis, how far can you stretch your scope when it comes to police activity?"

"My programming runs across the globe, sir. Mr. Stark also mentioned something about outer space, but I'm highly sceptical when it comes to that."

Spider-Man paced, feeling MJ and Eddie's eyes on him. He did his utmost not to look at the pool of blood on the floor of the lab. He needed to focus if they were going to stay one step ahead of Carnage.

"Can you find out if there's been activity reported involving Cletus Kasady?"

"One moment, sir."

Spider-Man waited with baited breath. Part of him was hoping against hope that there would be on activity—the last thing he wanted was to expose Eddie to the man who'd nearly killed him last Christmas. But if Mary Jane's hunch proved correct, then this had the potential to be a link to Carnage.

"New Hampshire police took Cletus Kasady in from Concord Hospital fourteen hours ago."

"What?"

"He was found beaten on the side of the highway, and once his identity was confirmed, he was turned over to police custody."

Spider-Man stared at Mary Jane and Eddie, both of whom were watching him with wide eyes.

"Jarvis—

Before he could finished, the operating system beat him to the punch.

"Cletus Kasady is due to be transported to a maximum security facility in Canada early this morning, sir. The weather in New Hampshire is clement, and the transport plane will take flight shortly after four-thirty."

"She's going to spring him," Eddie growled. "She's going to make Felicia follow her to Concord and then she's going to feed the symbiote on Felicia's body to him."

"Feed?" MJ stared.

"Yes. Carnage wants to be one of the only symbiotes left—well, not counting her beloved Cletus. If she can tear the symbiote from Felicia, she'll be able to pass it on to her husband and…"

Eddie's voice trailed away. He didn't need to elaborate. One psychopathic, homicidal alien was bad enough, but two? If Cletus and Carlie stood as a united front, then there was no telling what would happen.

MJ shook her head. "But that's only if she finds him, right? How could she possibly know where he is without having police intelligence?"

"She doesn't need it," Spider-Man said. "Not with the symbiote. It's got biological memory, baby. Any imprint—touch or taste or even smell—it can trace whatever it's come into contact with." He went slightly red as he added, "That was how I knew you were home the first night that it attached itself to me."

"And that was how I knew where to find him," Eddie nodded at Spider-Man. "Any contact, right? And Carlie's probably had the chance to kiss her hubby during visiting hours back when he was at Ravencroft."

"She's probably hijacking something right now to get there as fast as she can," Spider-Man said. "She might not know that he's going to be Canada bound in a few hours, but that won't matter. Without stopping—hell, even going over the speed limit—you could end up in New Hampshire in a matter of hours."

MJ raised her hand. "Just backing up here five minutes…you-" she pointed at Eddie, "-know where to find him-" she pointed at Spider-Man, "because you kissed each other?"

Neither of them answered—Eddie's ears actually went slightly pink.

"Jesus," MJ sighed. "The one thing that would have made this night bearable and I wasn't even there to see it."

Blessed intercession came in the form of Jarvic. "Pardon the interruption, sir," the computer said. "But I believe that this Carnage is already making for New Hampshire aboard a train."

Spider-Man froze.

"What?"

"Several distress calls were made from Pennsylvania Station, and the station's computers have registered a bogey train departing as recently as ten minutes ago."

"She's taking the train," Eddie said, as if he couldn't believe it. "Pete, if that thing gets top speed she could be there in an under an hour."

"Great," Spider-Man sighed. "And we're stuck here with no way to catch up."

"If you'll pardon me saying so, sir, but there's no need to give up hope yet."

Spider-Man grimaced. "Really, Jarvis? Is Iron Man going to come flying in and deliver us from evil?"

"Unfortunately, Mister Stark is on a flight bound for his West Coast condo at the moment. But there are several emergency vehicles still in the hangar at Stark Towers. I can access them remotely and have them here within a matter of moments."

"I could kiss," Spider-Man sighed.

"Oh no," MJ said. "You're only allowed to kiss two people, and both are in this room and also have physical bodies."

"Shall I send for an aircraft, sir?"

"Yes. Please. Thank you."

He turned to face MJ and Eddie. The symbiote slithered up Eddie's body, and although Spider-Man was still harrowed by the physical change, he knew that he needed Venom's help in this last fight.

But Mary Jane…

He turned to face her, and found that her jaw was set determinedly.

"Don't even think about," she said harshly. "You're not getting rid of me."

"MJ, if you get hurt—

"I don't care!" She stormed across the floor and prodded him painfully in the chest. "If anything happens, I want to be there. I know I can't do jack shit the way the rest of you can, but I can still do something. And if the worst does come to it…" Tears filled her eyes and she collapsed against his chest. "I don't want to be left in the dark the way Felicia was…he needed her to be there and she wasn't, so if it happens to either of you…"

Spider-Man held her close, but caught Venom's eye over the top of MJ's head.

"Don't look at us," they said. "She never listens when her heart is set on it."

Spider-Man sighed.

"Just…please be careful," he said, stroking MJ's tears away with his thumbs. "If anything happens to you—either of you…" He swallowed, the old pain he thought he'd buried when Gwen had died coming back to lash at his heart.

"Don't worry, tiger," MJ said. "I'll stay out of the way...might even hot wire a Panzer tank just in case."

Spider-Man chuckled. But deep down he knew that he would be very lucky indeed if this ended without any casualties.

 _Please_ , he thought, _don't let me lose them again._

 **A/N: Sorry for the delay. My mental health took another hit recently. Luckily I have this story to keep me going.  
**

 **Let me know what you think!**


	22. Impact

It was a mercy and a blessing that the small chopper arriving from Avengers Tower had an autopilot. As soon as his ass hit the seat to the left of the pilot, Spider-Man felt the exhaustion he'd been building a dam against all day seep through. His head swam, and his eyes fluttered shut. He wondered if he'd ever sleep again—if he would ever catch up to Carnage and Felicia, and what the repercussions would be.

The chopper sat four, which was fortunate. MJ sat wide-awake next to Spider-Man, her eyes fixed on the satellite map on the control panel. Behind her, taking up a seat and a half what with the bulk of his added symbiote, was Venom.

"We're making good time," MJ remarked.

Spider-Man nodded. If only Jarvis could show him some kind of trace of the train that Carnage had hijacked. But, according to Tony Stark's AI, any and all satellite tracking on the train's computers had been disabled. There was still no word from S.H.I.E.L.D, and Spider-Man was beginning to think that there never would be.

It was entirely down to them now.

"We find her, we make Felicia and the symbiote get a divorce and stop our other from increasing this twisted family tree," said Venom. "Easy as gravy, if the gravy were trying to kill everything in sight."

As inclined as he was to agree with Venom, Spider-Man couldn't help but feel as if they were too hellbent on a vengeance all too fatalistic for his peace of mind. If they could stop Carnage in her cause—if they could get to Cletus Kasady and put that barrier up—then they could deal with severing the symbiote from her later.

Spider-Man chanced a glance out the window. They'd left New York City behind almost as soon as they'd taken flight, the top speed of the chopper taking them miles over the border in a matter of moments. Below was a sea of rolling hills and dense patches of trees; to the east, a pale light tinged the sky. It would be dawn soon, and after that, morning. How long could he keep this struggle against Carnage going? She didn't strike him remotely as the type to lie down at all, and he knew perfectly well that the symbiote could carry its host without sleep.

Once again he felt the closing grasp of defeat press in around him—a need to throw in the towel for the first time in his life.

But this time something buried deep within his weary mind snapped back at this shadowy vice. All at once he felt the last diffuse vestiges of his resilience pool together like a series of positive protons, forming one burning atom of resolve. His weariness skirted from the centre of his attention; his focus became solely on how to manage what was to be done next—how to gain the upper hand against Carnage.

The answer eluded him, yes, but he didn't agonize over it as he had done for the better part of the day. There was a person beneath the symbiote—an entirely unremarkable, flawed, human being with weaknesses. It wasn't Carlie that they had to concern themselves with—it was the symbiote, feasting on the madness of its host.

She was weak to fire; Venom was weak to sound. All he, Spider-Man, has to do, was exploit that weakness.

Venom breathed in deeply. "We're close," they said. "We can sense them both..."

Spider-Man gauged the distance on the satellite.

"They're coming in hot," he said grimly. "Jarvis, can this thing go any faster?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but the craft is flying at top speed at present."

"We're fudged in other words," MJ said.

"Not necessarily," said Venom. "You're forgetting how far we can swing." The massive black and white figure got to their feet and clambered towards the rear hatch of the chopper.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"We're lucky you're all wearing seat belts." With that, Venom slammed their fist onto the hatch lock. The rear of the chopper slid open with a loud hiss; cool air snaked its way into the interior of the craft. Behind Venom, the scenery disappeared as rapidly as Spider-Man could make heads or tails of it.

Venom took an almighty leap through the hatch.

"Eddie!" Both MJ and Spider-Man yelled. A split second later they felt the chopper dip slightly in the air.

"He's on the underside," MJ said, half disbelieving and half exasperated. "He's going to Hulk-swing his way to the runaway train."

"And rip Carnage to shreds," Spider-Man said. A moment later, the weight on the bottom of the chopper vanished. The chopper's radar displayed something roughly the size of a small rhinoceros flying through the air at eighty miles per hour.

Venom had swung off solo.

"Damn it!" Spider-Man wrenched himself free of the chest restraint tore from his seat. He scanned the surface of the control panel. This was his realm of expertise: technology and engineering. Hell, Horizon Labs had probably made the prototype for this piece of machinery. There had to be a way to override the automated pilot...some way to push the chopper to past full throttle. Most vehicles couldn't go past even below maximum limit, but with something this sophisticated...

Spider-Man wrenched the casing off the control panel. MJ scrambled out of her seat.

"Do you think there's a way to override the speed?"

"Working on it." Spider-Man traced the wires as fast as he could. "I'm not letting him do this. Not after everything..." He followed the complex trail until he found the main computer for the chopper. "I'm not letting him become another dead body."

He found the computer box and realized, with a snarl of frustration, that Tony Stark had put a block over the whole system. There was no way around. It would take a computer hacker to make the thing work, and then only with some seriously underhanded tactics.

"Damn it!" Spider-Man looked wildly around the rapidly flying chopper. "Jarvis, unlock the computer."

"I'm afraid I can't let yon do that, sir."

"Okay," MJ said, trying to remain calm. "Okay. He's going to be on them both before us. But he's stronger than either of them..."

"And Carnage is eighteen freaking sheets to the wind, MJ. There's nothing she won't do to get what she wants. She might be weaker, but she's vicious..." He'd learned that firsthand during the fight at the Baxter Building. Carnage had played to her knowledge of being weaker than Venom—she'd dodged, retreated and attacked from far off. She's used Spider-Man, Felicia and Harry as leverage, going for them to draw Venom out and the using her surroundings to gain advantage. And when she'd been backed into any corner, she'd become as frenzied and uncontrollable as a bloodthirsty wolverine. There were too many risks in Venom trying to take her head on; but if he, Peter, were there, then he could keep Eddie safe, because that was what the hero was supposed to do. Eddie wouldn't end up like Uncle Ben or Captain Stacy or Gwen or Harry...

Spider-Man felt Mary Jane's presence. When, at last, the weight of her gaze became too heavy to bear, he turned to face her.

"We need to think," she said.

"I can't." Spider-Man averted his gaze, not that MJ could tell from behind his mask. He hated admitting it—hated the weakness—but there was no sense beating about the bush. "I'm scared, okay?"

"Well so am I!" MJ yelled. Her eyes burned with confusion, terror and rage. Spider-Man felt as if she'd slapped him in the face. Her words and the assignation behind them cut tremendously deep. He'd come to depend on her strength—on that habit she had of pulling him from the depths, that he'd forgotten that she, too, wasn't infallible to fear.

He sighed, and let his mask fall.

"I'm sorry," he said. God, he wanted to sleep. "It's just...I don't know what to do, and I've always known what to do." It had seemed so easy all the other times. Even when he'd been improvising and reacting to the chaos that breathed around him, he'd managed to stay a step ahead—to rely on Spider-Man to get him through to the end.

But now there was nothing. Carnage knew his every move as a result of the symbiote having been a part of him. He didn't know what he was heading for, and it terrified him more than he cared to admit.

MJ wrapped her arms around him, and pressed her face into the warm strength of his chest. She shook, crying quietly against him for the second time that night. And, despite his exhaustion and panic and hopelessness, he found the words to comfort her...or rather, the words floated back to him in the voice of another remarkable, intelligent, beautiful girl.

"Guess we've gotta be greater than this, MJ," he said. "All three of us. I just never thought I'd have to push back against something so..."

"Shitty?"

Peter chuckled. "Yeah."

The chopper continued to soar through the pre-dawn sky.

"We're going to finish this," Peter went on. "We're going to stop her before she gets to reunite with that sick bastard. Then you, me and Eddie are going on a nice long vacation."

"The Hamptons," MJ murmured. "Bring Aunt May and Rio and Miles..."

"Yeah."

First they had to face this enemy, this titan. And as Peter looked at the satellite map on the bare console of the chopper's dash, and saw that they were nearing Concord and realized that Eddie was probably already now going toe to toe with Carnage and Felicia, he felt some of that hope start to flicker.

 _Please_ , he thought, closing his eyes as he held Mary Jane to him, _please keep him safe. I love him too much to lose him..._

* * *

It took Venom all but three swings from the chopper to find themselves at the railroad tracks. The runaway train from Penn Station was speeding faster than the hurricane that had engulfed New York City, its red taillights disappearing into the lightening horizon.

But Venom wasn't worried about falling behind. All they'd needed was to get within eyesight of the speeding locomotive.

They fired a line of corded black webbing clear down the line. It connected with the rear of the train, and a moment later, Venom was pulled along at the speed of sound behind it. They arched into the air and landed on the middle-most car.

They could feel the pulsating power of their others—one frantic in the thrall of rage and the other so disparate in her intent that Venom couldn't discern any emotion for longer than a fraction of a second. Not only could they feel this miasma of malicious madness from the focal point of Carnage, but it resonated around the entire train.

Carnage had taken control of the vehicle with her symbiote. Yet though Venom could sense this, and that she lived, they could also sense that Felicia was still alive.

Snarling, Venom sank their fingers into the roof of the train and peeled it back as if it were tinfoil. They fell to the ground, amid the devastated interior of the passenger train.

It was as if an F5 tornado had been unleashed within the train. Seats had been ripped from the floor and shredded to pieces; the walls were covered in immense gouges. Remnants of webbing were strung from odd corners, and a deep red and black network of lines crisscrossed like a network of electrical wiring.

Venom heard and sensed the fight in the next car over. They charged down the aisle and leapt across the space between cars into the dining area. Food and glass were strewn everywhere—in the midst of the chaos, two lithe but lethal figures were battling for dominance. Felicia had Carnage's throat in the writhing tendrils of her hair, slamming her repeatedly against the remains of a glass cased refrigerator. Yet in spite of the upper hand, Carnage met the blows strength for strength with vicious slashes of her claws.

There was something altogether dreadful in the spectacle. While both symbiotes were decidedly feminine in appearance, the display of claws, and the gaping mouth that was two thirds of Felicia's face, made the whole thing terrible to behold, to say nothing of the screams and snarls.

Venom didn't have the patience to let them tear each other to pieces, not when the train was already nearing Concord. Growling, they webbed the row of refrigerators behind Carnage and pulled them down with all their strength. The red symbiote barely had time to register their other's presence before the weight of the food display fell on top of her.

Felicia leaped backwards, and then turned to Venom with her jaws agape, hissing and spitting in rage. Ignoring her, Venom webbed her by the waist and yanked her across the floor. Felicia snarled, and made to slice through the webbing, but Venom beat her to the punch, webbing her wrists to the wall, suspending her inches off the floor in the sturdy, rope-like substance.

The air vibrated as Carnage burst from the toppled refrigerator with a shriek. But Venom, anticipating their foe's actions, was already on her. He pinioned the symbiote to the wall, seized her head in both heads and sent her flying. Carnage collided with a dessert case.

Carnage screamed, seized several shards of fallen glass and sent them slicing through the air. Venom shattered them with a few well-aimed blobs of webbing; the particles and fragments flew towards them, but they absorbed the lethal projectiles and spat them Carnage's way with the force of a Gatling gun. Carnage attempted to dodge the bits of glass, but several still caught her full in the sides.

"Bastard!" She half-shrieked, half-laughed, as if the pain were pleasurable. Venom bounded towards her; Carnage made to leap at them, her claws unsheathed and bound for Venom's eyes.

Venom met Carnage head on; together, the symbiotes crashed to the serving counter and rolled over one another. Carnage dug clawed fingers into Venom's skin and wrapped her tongue around his throat; but though the sensation both burned and froze, and the feeling of that sibilant tongue chafed at their skin, Venom was not so easily conquered. They tore Carnage's claws from deep within their body, grasped her tongue and severed it like a tree branch. Carnage let out a piercing, gurgling scream and reared away from Venom. Taking the distraction of her pain to their advantage, Venom seized Carnage by the shoulders and slung her twenty feet across the room and through the solid wall of the kitchen.

"No!"

Felicia had untethered herself from Venom's webs. Her tendrils whipping sharply through the air, she seized Venom by the wrists and ankles and threw him backwards. "She's mine!"

"Damn it," Venom growled.

Felicia pounced at the same time that Carnage whirled around. Carnage's skin had grown dozens upon dozens of wriggling appendages, each gripping knives and bits of glass. She was going to come out swinging; Felicia was too inexperienced—to loosely tethered through her grief-driven rage to the symbiote. She wouldn't make it.

Fortunately for Venom, Carnage had fallen right in front of a gas oven.

Quick as lighting, Venom righted themselves. They webbed a line clear over Felicia's shoulder, past Carnage's head and through the solid stainless steel of the oven. The corded substance pierced the cans of propane; Venom jerked their web away, and a moment later an explosion rocketed the train car. Carnage shrieked and ducked as fire engulfed her; Felicia went soaring backwards as a wave of heat and flame rolled through the car. Venom braced themselves, rolling behind an overturned table. The roar of the explosion sent the symbiote splattering into pieces; Eddie's skin burned as heat pulsed through the dining car and out the open exit door.

When the worst of the blast cleared and Venom was able to piece themselves back together, they found Felicia throwing charred debris out of her way with the tendrils snaking out of her scalp.

A feral scream pierced the air. Venom saw that a wall of fire had formed between the kitchen and the rest of the dining car. Carnage was trapped in the blaze for the time being, shrieking as the flames climbed higher and higher.

Knowing that they had precious time to spare, Venom roped a line around both of Felicia's ankles, her wrists and the back of her neck. They affixed the webs to the ground, keeping Felicia tethered, but for how long was anyone's guess.

"Let me go!" Felicia rounded on Venom, her featureless face horrible to behold. It struck Venom as fitting that in her rage, Felicia had allowed the symbiote to twist her striking beauty into something so hideous.

"She'll destroy you," Venom said, eyeing the still shrieking Carnage as if she were a loathsome cockroach.

"I survived this long!"

"You have to let it go, Felicia. You don't know how to control it."

Felicia screamed in response, and tore her arms from the restraints of Venom's webs.

"Of course!" Felicia snarled, wrenching her legs free and leaping to the ceiling. She leered down at Venom. "Tell me what's best for me, right? What does the woman know—"

Venom snarled, webbed Felicia by the mouth and pulled her downwards, close enough so that he could grasp her flailing tendrils in one hand.

"It has nothing to do with that! You're flying on pain and grief. You're no better than she is, or Peter was when it got a hold of him! _We_ know it— _we_ let it in, Felicia. If you keep it, it's going to do exactly what it did to Peter and Carlie."

One of Felicia's strands of snake-like hair slipped through Venom's clutches. It pierced their wrist, but Venom held firm. They let the web sink back into their hand, not breaking contact with the gaping maw that was Felicia's face.

"She took him!" Felicia screamed. "I want her dead!"

"So do we. And we're going to kill her no matter what Spider-Man says." Venom had reached that conclusion long before the fight at the Baxter Building had begun. Carnage wouldn't rest, and there was no force on Earth or in the universe that could hold her capacious appetite for chaos and bloodshed. "But you're not going to fill that space with her death. You know it. Anything else is just the symbiote feeding from you."

Venom let the symbiote slip down to his neck. Felicia wouldn't listen to Venom—hell, he wasn't even sure she would listen to Eddie Brock; but he had to try.

"I know you're tearing yourself up inside. I can't imagine what that's like. My biggest fear just happened to you back there."

"You don't understand!" Felicia sounded close to breaking. "You could never understand!"

"No, but there's someone back there who can. He means the world to me, Felicia, and I know he doesn't want this from you." Peter didn't want it from Eddie, either, but Eddie wasn't going to give in. He knew the symbiote, could co-exist with it. And unlike Peter—whose unbelievably kind heart and beautiful soul wouldn't let him cross the line to even shoot Hitler in the face if it came down to it—Eddie wasn't afraid to shed blood for the greater good.

Bits of the black and white symbiote began to slither from Felicia's face. He saw her eyes—her beautiful green eyes—saw the tears and the rage and the despair.

" _I'm. So. Angry_!" Felicia's voice broke in a sob as she collapsed against Eddie's chest.

The symbiote relinquished its grasp—or rather, Felicia found the strength within her to let go of its toxic influence. She diminished into a broken woman, sobbing against Eddie as he held her close while the train sped towards oblivion and the fire raged behind them.

What would he have done had it been Mary Jane or Peter who'd been so brutally ripped away from him? He'd have torn the world to shreds, that much he knew for certain. Felicia had been in the presence of something too intoxicating to resist, and Eddie didn't hold her actions against her in the least.

But she was free now, and soon her piece of the symbiote...

Eddie froze, Venom covering his face once more. Keeping one strong arm around Felicia's body, he looked back into the fiery kitchen. Carnage sat on the floor, feet together, rocking back and forth and laughing in horrible, gleeful victory.

A line of black crawled across the ceiling—the symbiote that Felicia had covered herself in. It was making for Carnage because Carnage was calling to it.

The symbiote cleared the fire and plopped into Carnage's open hand, seeping into her skin. She let out a luxurious gasp, as if the union were that of the utmost pleasure. Her body stretched, twisting in paroxysms of ecstasy.

Then, when the afterglow had subsided, Carnage stood, looming behind the fire like a demoness.

"Thanks for that," she said.

Venom felt an immense tremor through the air that deadened the fires of rage within them before they even blazed to life. They looked over their shoulder; Felicia stilled in their arms, and Carnage froze mid-gloat.

 _Danger._

Obstacle.

Stop.

A moment later, the dining car jerked violently as the train arrived at its final destination, crashing into the terminal with a violence that sent every car spiraling into a topsy-turvey hell.

* * *

Spider-Man felt the crash course through his senses before he heard it. He and MJ had arrived at the tarmac, only to find that the transport plane carrying a sedated Cletus Kasady hadn't yet departed despite its being past take off time. An unexpected weather front was keeping it grounded for at least ten minutes, and the wall-crawler knew full well that the speeding train would have arrived by that point.

He'd only hoped that it wouldn't.

They were running out of time, and Spider-Man wasn't about to gamble with both Eddie and Felicia in close proximity to Carnage.

"Maybe Venom will get the upper hand," MJ said hopefully. "Or S.H.I.E.L.D...the train could derail outside of Concord. It could still work out."

Almost as if on cue, Spider-Man's senses screamed in alarm. The next second an immense bang split the silence of the dawn; a thick black plume of smoke rose over the skyline to the east.

MJ narrowed her eyes. "I think the universe may have it in for us today." She glanced at him.

Spider-Man could tell that she didn't want him to be out of her sight after everything that had happened.

"Right," she said at last. "You go scope that out and I'll stay here and…and see if I can convince these gents to brave the weather..."

"And how are you going to swing that one?"

"You forget who the actor is here." MJ smiled tremulously at him.

Overwhelmed with gratitude for Mary Jane simply existing, as well as the high possibility that this might be the last time they ever saw each other, he pulled her into his arms, let the mask fall away, and kissed her hard. She clutched at the golden plates of his armored suit; at that moment, he made a promise to himself that if they survived this he would move Heaven, Hell and Earth to make her his—to keep her from ever falling into harm's way like this again. He would hang up the suit—hang up the code—and give Peter Parker the time he so desperately needed to breathe. He'd never again take Mary Jane for granted, or Eddie for that matter.

But only if they made it through.

Leaving the soft warmth of Mary Jane's lips and the strength of her arms was unbearable. He saw the fear in her eyes—the exhaustion and the steely determination to keep going. She was battered, bruised, dirty and covered in Harry's blood. But she, like Eddie and Spider-Man, would keep in fighting.

MJ took another shuddering breath and said, with a forced airiness, "What do you say to some Vietnamese take out tonight? After we sleep, of course."

"Sounds like paradise."

"I love you."

"I know." He kissed her again, nodded, and then let the mask close over his face once more. MJ turned, arms around herself, and hurried back towards the plane. Spider-Man watched her go, her form a stark silhouette against the pink tinge of the dawn.

He wouldn't lose her. Not after everything. He wouldn't lose her or Eddie.

"Jarvis, bring the chopper."

The Stark craft alighted from behind the cluster of trees on the border of the runaway where Spider-Man had landed it. As soon as it was within range, he webbed a line to the underside.

"Top speed to the train station, and make it snappy."

"Making it snappy, sir."

Cold air whipped around Spider-Man. The cloud of smoke grew denser and thicker against the sky as he soared towards the demolished train station.

His heart caught in his throat. The train had gone clear through the outside of the brick station and through the other. Rubble and glass were strewn along the street; early morning commuters raced away, screaming, bleeding and covered in ash. Tongues of flame leapt from the massive chasm in the station, licking at the crisp air of the morning.

Spider-Man activated the HUD, his blood running cold as he saw several dead bodies already strewn among the wreckage. He let himself fall, landing on the back of the flipped caboose. He ran towards the front of the train, closing in on the darkness and smoke of the wrecked station. He could see three figures within one of the upturned cars sticking out of the station, all lying still.

 _No_ , he thought, _braving the heat and the smoke. No, goddamn it!_

He tore through scorching steel and fell into the darkened car. Through the night vision of his display, he saw them all—Felicia, human once more, slumped over some mangled piece of furniture. Venom too was still, several feet away, their massive chest rising and falling. And there, towards the part of the car buried in black smoke, was Carnage.

Spider-Man's only source of comfort was that all three were clearly alive.

He wasted no time in webbing a tightly woven cage around the ostensibly unconscious Carnage, binding her as tightly as he could. Then he grabbed Felicia and Venom, threw both of his shoulder and darted to the gaping rent he'd left in the ceiling of the train.

He raced off the cars to where the chopper was hovering. People stood on the street, gasping, crying and pointing. Already the police and emergency response crews were assembling, several of them not known whether to aim their weapons at Spider-Man or keep them on the train.

He couldn't have cared less. He laid Venom and Felicia in the ground. His mask slipped away as he shook one and then the other.

"Come on," he begged. "Wake up...Eddie...Felicia, please!"

Felicia gasped, rolled over and began coughing. A split second later, Venom jolted awake, sitting up and staring around wildly.

"Oh thank God!" Spider-Man placed shaking hands on Venom's shoulders. A crowd of EMT's pressed in, converging in the still spluttering Felicia. Spider-Man heard several police officers cock their guns, but all he could think about was that Felicia and Eddie were safe.

Safe, but not pleased.

Venom wasted little time in getting to their feet.

"Where is she," they said. "Did you see her?"

"I webbed her to the dirt and back. She won't be going—

Venom snarled and made to leap for the train. Several officers opened fire; Spider-Man yelled in terrified fury, but Venom only absorbed the bullets and sent them ricocheting back at the officer's feet.

His spider-sense trembled; dread coiled up his spine and he turned to face the smoke still pouring liberally from the train depot. Venom stopped in their tracks, growling low in their chest.

The first thing Spider-Man saw of Carnage was her eyes. Narrowed and white as death, they loomed from the fire and smoke like beacons of malice. She walked at an easy pace, the black and scarlet symbiote slowly crawling over her exposed body.

There was something far more awful about her now, although Spider-Man couldn't place just how it was that she had changed. Certainly she still looked the same; but there was a raw, unhinged power radiating from her now.

Spider-Man glanced at the nearby ambulance; Felicia was sitting on the curb, breathing into an oxygen mask.

He'd thought the symbiote had left her and gone into Venom; now, as he held Carnage's awful gaze, he realized that the exact opposite had occurred. And when a smaller explosion sent fire searing against the scarlet symbiote's back and she didn't even flinch, Spider-Man realized she'd grown stronger in the union.

Carnage smiled; she eyed the Stark chopper hovering over Spider-Man's head. Then she let out a hysterical, horrible laugh; spider senses going haywire, Spider-Man flipped over in the air at the same time that Venom did. Hundreds of sharp bits of debris exploded from Carnage's body—metal scraps and razor pieces of glass she'd absorbed in the crash scattered to the crowd assembled.

One of them caught Spider-Man square in the side of his mask.

"Si-ii-ir?" He heard Jarvis's voice warble, and then squeal until, finally, the AI faded into silence.

Sticking to the side of a nearby fire truck, Spider-Man relied on every sense and reflex he had to snatch the more lethal projectiles before they could connect with the bystanders. Venom, likewise, snatched Carnage's latest barrage, only they could actually stand in the way and not risk losing their life.

Carnage sighed as if she'd stepped into a warm bath. With a sickening, fleshy squelch, two immense wings like those of a diseased bat spread from her shoulders.

"When are you going to understand," she said, "that this isn't a fight you're going to win?" She flapped her demonic wings once, then twice and rose into the air like a bat out of hell. With a scream of victory, she flew off, launching red and black barbs at the civilians below.

"No!" Venom roared. They whirled around and made to web a line after Carnage; but the scarlet symbiote was already departing the scene, her wings carrying her faster than Spider-Man and Venom could follow—carrying her to the airport.

* * *

MJ pulled every trick in the book she could think of to convince the commanding officer to fly the plane carrying Cletus Kasady away from Concord. She tried rousing him with bald facts; she tried crying, which was quite convincing as far as she was concerned, given that she had the barest grasp on her emotions as it was; she tried pretending like she had friends in high places, and when that failed, she got angry.

But the man wasn't moved. The plane was staying put until the weather front cleared.

MJ's mind was a rapid blur of sleep deprivation and desperation. There was nothing she could do—she couldn't fly the plane, couldn't sway the assembled officers, and she had no way of getting a hold of Peter or Eddie.

Bereft, despising her uselessness once more, she collapsed onto the back of a police pick up, head in her hands. She couldn't think, couldn't figure out what to do. Adrenaline was keeping her awake, but barely sane. From her position several feet away from the open ramp leading into the plane, MJ could see the gurney that Cletus Kasady was bound to. There was an oxygen mask covering his face, and an IV pumping him with Heaven only knew what. MJ could just see the top of his head—the hair just as thin and pale red as it had been the previous Christmas when she'd bludgeoned him to a pulp after he'd tried to gut Eddie alive.

All this trouble for him.

It wasn't right, it wasn't fair...and he was so vulnerable now...the guards were too busy receiving updates from Concord in regarding the crashed train...all she had to do was run to the ramp, duck inside and pop a hole into his IV drip or smash his life support machines...

MJ shook herself, a wave of dread and disbelief stealing over her.

No.

She wasn't a killer, no matter how furious she was—no matter how much turmoil threw itself in her way, she didn't have it in her to take another life.

A sudden roar made MJ jump. She looked around. The jet turbines of the plane were roaring to life.

MJ looked around and saw the commanding officer with his head in the window, conversing with the pilot. Through some sixth sense, he seemed to know he was being watched. He looked Mary Jane's way, and made an "OK" sigh with his forefinger and thumb.

They were taking off!

They'd done it! They'd beaten Carnage to the punch!

At that moment, a scream pierced the air. Mary Jane and several other officers whirled around. Something black and red and winged was flying through the dawn towards the tarmac, something with narrowed white eyes. Far behind it, but not close enough, MJ saw the Stark Industries chopper that had carried them from New York City. But Carnage was already gaining ground.

The assembled officers drew their guns. Before they could open fire, several long black and red lines shot out from Carnage's body, fifty feet in length and thin as wire.

A handful of officers got the deadly barbs in the throat or between the eyes. They went down before they even knew what had hit them.

MJ felt that same sense of weightlessness that had overtaken her when Harry had died return. But she was used to it now, too used to it to be caught as a deer in the headlights. She needed shelter, and through her frantic exhaustion, the only place that offered any protection was the transport plane now canting starboard to take off.

MJ sprang to her feet; her shoes ate pavement as Carnage continued to rain bloody fury from the skies nearby. As bodies hit the tarmac and shots ran out, MJ lunged for the ramp at the back of the plane; she caught the end of it and rolled into the hold mere seconds before it sealed shut.

The plane rattled and rumbled as it gained speed. Flattened on the floor, MJ stared at the comatose form of Cletus Kasady. This was, quite possibly, the worst place for her to be, but there was no turning back now. The hold was narrow but long; a screen protected the passenger hold and cockpit. There was a large red button labelled "emergency lock" set in the wall.

Keeping herself flat on the floor, MJ felt the plane begin to lift. They were taking off—leaving Carnage behind—leaving Eddie and Peter behind. Higher and higher they climbed, until she was certain that they were too high up to risk pursuit.

Suddenly something landed on the roof of the plane with a resounding thump. She heard heavy footsteps bound towards the cockpit, and her blood ran cold.

Struggling against the inertia as they plane continued to climb, MJ got to her feet and staggered down the body of the plane towards the grate.

A second later she was sent backwards as something shattered the windows. She heard a scream and a horrible squelch; the plane began to fall, and MJ was sent upwards, slamming into the roof.

The plane canted downwards, as if something heavy hand landed on the nose. A dizzying second later, the air pressure returned. MJ fell floorwards. Dazed, she staggered towards the grate separating the back of the plane from the front.

A thick screen of webbing covered the bloody, shattered windows. Spider-Man was violently beating at Carnage; behind them Venom was, quite literally, splattering to pieces as the sonic roar from the jet engines ate away at his symbiote. Spider-Man was doing everything in his power to keep Eddie safe, and Carnage was likewise doing everything to get at him.

MJ abandoned any and all pretense of what kind of person she was. She scrambled back to the spot where Cletus Kasady lay in his coma, directly in front of the tubes and wires keeping him alive.

"Carlie!" She screamed.

Carnage threw Spider-Man against the control panel and faced MJ through the grate.

Without any preamble, MJ seized a handful of the wires and pulled with all her might. The heart monitor began to beep erratically; Kasady's body spasmed and shook as if he'd been shocked by lightning.

Carnage screamed and tore through the grating. She leapt at MJ, who dove out of the way in the nick of time. A moment later, Spider-Man webbed her to the safety of the cockpit.

Transfixed by the horrible sight, all three stood immobile as Carnage pulled tube and needle from Cletus Kasady. But in a matter of seconds he lay still, his fingers twitching one last time.

Carnage screamed, but the sound wasn't unhinged or feral with bloodlust—she sounded as if her heart had genuinely broken, and Mary Jane realized the true tragedy in all this had been Carlie Cooper's love for the psychopathic murderer she had married.

Carnage collapsed onto Cletus's chest, her shoulders heaving with sobs. MJ felt drawn for some inexplicable reason, needing to help the woman in the grips of her pain.

Then Carnage stilled.

She lifted her head, and smoothed Cletus's ginger hair from his face. Slowly, she pressed a kiss to his lips.

"Oh god," Eddie—still losing the fragments of Venom as the plane's jets continued to break the sound barrier—staggered forward. Spider-Man threw another hand out to keep Eddie back, his entire body tense as a bowstring.

It seemed as if a layer of Carnage's skin were peeling off. The black and red of her own symbiote remained on Carlie's body, but the outer shell was slipping away, crawling over what Mary Jane now desperately hoped was the dead body of Cletus Kasady.

The writhing mass of black coiled and slithered around Cletus's body, consuming him whole in a skin redder than that covering Carlie—the red of a raw, bleeding wound.

For several lingering seconds he lay quite still.

Then two immense white eyes split open in his face, and the thing that had been Cletus Kasady lunged forward, alive and thirsting for blood.

 **A/N: I may well have named this chapter "Planes Trains and Automobiles." Hopefully the jump between all these settings wasn't too jarring.**

 **Thanks for all your kind words so far! Let me know what you think! We're almost done!**


	23. Agony Screams

He'd been having the most wonderful dreams. In those dreams, nobody hurt him—nobody beat him or yelled at him or strapped him to cold, cutting steel. He was safe in the space, protected by warmth—a child surrounded by his favorite things, things that had brought him comfort before his mind had began to unravel. In those days, he could look at a cat without wondering what it would sound like when he bashed it against a rock; he could listen to his grandmother speak and not hate the sound of her voice. It was the safest of spaces, and Cletus had determined to remain there as long as he possibly could.

But like everything in his life, the peace wasn't to last. Something tore through the cozy blanket of security, something with sharp, jagged, dirty claws. It let screams and blood and pain into the world of dreaming.

He tried to flee—to his grandmother, to his friends, to his lovers, all of whom had guided him through the warm recesses of the beautiful dream. But when he reached for his grandmother, she slipped away, tumbling down a craggy set of stairs and cracking her head open at the bottom. His friends split down the middle, blood swamping over him. And when he turned for the shelter of his lovers, they turned to mincemeat. He wanted the solid intelligence of Harry Osborn—intelligent little Harry, who'd been Cletus's favourite in Ravencroft. He wanted the strength of Eddie Brock—doting Eddie, who'd followed Cletus when he'd been ill and still making his mark in the world of baseball. He wanted his Carlie, his baby girl, who'd seen past all the bad, bad things.

But as the world ripped into bloody tatters, Cletus realized that he had caused all this devastation. The guilt choked him, squeezing him as he raced through crumbling memories of blood and guts and screaming—he'd killed his grandmother; he didn't have any friends, just victims. Harry Osborn had loathed the very mention of Cletus's name; Eddie Brock hadn't been a lover—he'd been a cruel, bleeding victim.

Images flashed as Cletus tried to find an escape. His own memories threatened to burn him to a crisp; other memories and feelings that were not his own pulled at him—memories of failure, of beautiful blonde angels falling from heaven to their deaths; of searing pain and vulnerability as a horrible doppelgänger pinned him to the ground and sank a knife into his guts; of screaming men, women and children whose lives hadn't taken, lost and tortured at the hands of something black and red; of Harry Osborn, still and lifeless and mangled.

Cletus felt himself pulled away by something that feasted on every fiber of his being; the pain barely began to recede before it returned, hotter and more stinging than ever before. He couldn't think beyond the terror and the hurt; couldn't feel beyond the sensation that something was invading his very soul, devouring him slowly in sharp, lethal jaws.

It was

 _brutal, searing, can't_ —stop—me—is— _them, terror, fear, hunted, spiders, poison_ —pain, pain

sheer

 _anguish, ripping, tearing_ —me, us, them— _lost, shredded_

agony.

Cletus lurched forward. He didn't know were he was, what he was or who was around him. All he knew was that he had

 _killed, monster, so many, blood, devour,_

been somewhere safe and was now in Hell. Faces stared at him, three of them horrible and bloated but diminished, nightmarish things out of any known shape. Sound buffeted at him like bullets, voices that were not his own or those of anything he could trace, but they were there and they were real and they were going to hurt him.

"THE AGONY!" Something shrieked in a horribly dissonant voice that sounded like Legion. Hands grasped at Cletus's face, but they weren't his hands because he was a human and these hands were long, large and red as an open wound.

He wanted it to stop—wanted the feeling of being watched by unkind eyes to vanish.

He looked round, hating his surroundings, seeing flashes of blood and death in every surface.

There, feet from him, was an angel garbed in crimson and black. She stared at him with eyes that burned white as starlight. She was

 _friend, enemy, lover, mother, salvation, destruction_

watching him as if she knew him—as if she'd been waiting for him all her life.

"AGONY!" Cletus all but sobbed. "Save us, love me, what is love, what is why?!"

The angel's face fell as Cletus collapsed to his knees in front of her. She would save him, she had to save him because that was what angel's did.

"Mercy," Cletus whispered. "Our Mother who art in Heaven; Heaven is a place on Earth with you."

The angel gripped Cletus by his chin, forcing him to meet her heavenly gaze. He felt drawn to her and repulsed at the same time, but the voices and the terror weren't as bad now he was near her—now that she was touching him like this.

"Agony," he whimpered once more.

The angel's eyes narrowed, and Cletus thought back to a time when his grandmother had worn such an expression of disappointment—a time shortly before she'd fallen to her death.

He didn't even flinch when he felt the angel's sharp claws dig into the sides of his face. All he wanted at that moment was her salivation, and when she spoke, her words were like the music of a heavenly choir.

"Useless waste," she said, her voice bitter with anger and hatred but oh so perfectly beautiful...

She pressed her mouth to his, and he didn't scream; he didn't flinch; he didn't care that she was killing him. He just wanted the peace, and the everlasting silence.

* * *

Spider-Man made himself watch as Carnage devoured the thing that Cletus Kasady had become. He held MJ against him, holding her close as she buried her face in his side, shielding herself from a sight all too frightening to be believable.

Carnage didn't so much as eat Cletus as she did drink him, taking the symbiote that has enveloped his body, his flesh and bones, into herself. Her red and black skin squirmed, pulping outwards as she took another living thing into her body, dissolving Cletus Kasady and symbiote into nothingness. Hundreds upon hundreds of wriggling villi wormed their way out of her skin, twisting her into something eldritch and awful.

When there was nothing left, Carnage arched her head back and let out a growling scream that echoed down the plane.

Spider-Man looked to the still shivering MJ, and then to Eddie, still unable to keep a grasp on the skin of the symbiote.

They were vulnerable now, completely at the mercy of the horrible thing Carnage had become. Spider-Man knew full well that the symbiote would be in a state of frenzy; it had seen too many hosts, gorged itself on too many unstable emotions. There was nothing for it—it would either be her or them, and he wasn't going to let the foul thing shed anymore innocent blood.

Carnage screamed—the second layer of her symbiote began to melt away, the writhing mass of tentacles coalescing into an amorphous blob on the ground. She couldn't control it in her fury and grief, and as that was the only tide turning in his favor, Spider-Man decided to use it to his advantage.

He seized MJ by the shoulders and threw her clear across the cargo hold into the cockpit. Then he faced Eddie, prepared to throw him to safety. But Eddie beat him to the punch. Rippling with the unstable black skin of his symbiote as he was, he could, it seemed, muster enough control to fire a web. The black line hit the emergency lock, and a solid steel door shuttered over the mangled grating that had kept cockpit and cargo hold separated.

"Eddie!" Spider-Man stared in furious disbelief, ignoring Carnage as she continued to scream and clutch at her face.

"I'm not going down without a fight," Eddie snarled. He began to fire more webs, one after another, at Carnage. It was the only thing to be done at the moment; the red blob of the shed symbiote was going haywire, stretching this way and that, trying to find a host in the confusion.

Spider-Man didn't pay it the slightest heed. He joined Eddie in the act of webbing Carnage to the ground; he crawled along walls and swung through the cramped hold, forming a solid cocoon of his own silver webbing over the case of Eddie's black one. He didn't know what they were going to do—all he knew was that he had to wear her down, and he would keep himself awake for weeks and chase her across continents if he had to.

All too soon, Carnage broke through the dome. She screamed and lunged at Eddie, claws drawn. Spider-Man swung, kicking her under the chin and sending her flying to the nearest wall. The plane rocked at the impact; Spider-Man pinned Carnage and began reigning down blow after blow, not even caring as she slashed at the front of his costume.

"Why...won't...you...stay...down!" He snarled.

Carnage laughed; her middle exploded in a shower of red barbs, but Spider-Man sensed her course of action and flipped out of the way, webbing a makeshift shield to protect himself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eddie hit the ground, crawling towards the severed red symbiote now snaking its way towards the sealed security door to the cockpit.

"You'll die up here," Carnage said, leaping for him. He made to dodge, but she predicted his move and seized him by the foot. As if batting away a moth, she jerked his ankle to the side. Searing pain exploded through Spider-Man as his foot broke; his HUD flashed red. Carnage seized him by the throat and held him up, drawing him close to her mouth and squeezing with all her might.

"We'll all die," Carnage whispered. "It's the only way, Peter." She held her opposite hand out, extending it across the cargo hold. She seized Eddie in a massive grasp, and held him up next to Peter. The symbiote slid from her face, and Carlie Cooper stared at Spider-Man almost sympathetically. Spider-Man struggled, trying to get to Eddie; out of the corner of his eye he saw the red symbiote slip through the minuscule crack in the security door to the cockpit.

He was helpless.

He couldn't save Eddie. He couldn't save Mary Jane. In that moment he wondered how in the hell he'd ever complained about not being Spider-Man enough during those weeks after The Avengers had been formed. He should have cherished every last moment of humanity—should have been content being Peter Parker.

"It's the only way," Carlie said, almost distractedly. "Everything dies." She squeezed harder, until Spider-Man was sure his windpipe would shatter. Several pieces of the symbiote extended outwards, little fingers piercing through the plating of his new armour and through the fabric beneath. He felt them, cold and slimy, caressing his bare skin, and his stomach churned. One long tendril crept up his neck, crooked backwards and split his mask down the middle.

Carlie laughed; Eddie struggled against her squeezing grasp, but it was useless.

"I see you now," Carlie said. "Human and pathetic. What would it take—"

But at that moment the metal security gate to the cockpit was wrenched open, the squeal of it deafening. Carlie stared round; Spider-Man saw something tall, shapely and yellow as acid—something with wide white eyes and a mass of scarlet hair.

Then he was seized from behind and jerked backwards, out of Carlie's murderous grip.

* * *

Mary Jane had pounded on the security gate so hard that she'd broken the skin of every knuckle. She'd screamed herself hoarse—screamed and screamed for something to help. She'd seen Carnage—the mutated thing that she's become—leap for Spider-Man. Then the gate had shut, and she'd had nothing but sound and her frantic imagination to rely on.

Broken, she'd slumped against the bloody pilot seat. There was nobody coming to help, and the only people who could were now at the mercy of something far more nightmarish than she'd ever thought possible to face.

Tears filled her eyes; she gasped, her throat so dry and raw from screaming that the very act of sobbing hurt her. But she couldn't help it—couldn't help anything or anyone—couldn't—

 _help, help us, help you, help them, found you_

MJ froze, staring through the red, matted tangles of her hair. She could hear the words in her ears and her head—something was pleasing, bargaining with her...

 _let us, help you, save them, cleanse us_

Something red and viscous seeped through the jagged crack in the middle of the gate. It filled the space from the ceiling of the cockpit to the floor, dripping down like blood from a fresh wound. Then it collected into a gelatinous form. Slowly, it crawled across the ground, and reached out for her.

Mary Jane stared at the symbiote, feeling as if a curious dog was sniffing her. She could still hear it in her mind, coaxing her—in pain and needing. It needed her to help it, to heal it, and she needed it to stop Carnage.

She remembered what Venom had said to her back in the hospital room all those hours ago...that Eddie understood it, that he didn't fight against it. He let it be.

All she needed was to keep it long enough to try and stop Carnage...then she could hand it over to Eddie, the only one thus far who'd been able to co-exist with the symbiote.

MJ held out a shaking hand. The symbiote coiled around her fingers, hovering inches off her skin as if testing the waters.

Then it closed around her.

She gasped at the feeling, simultaneously cold and hot. It traveled up her arm, binding itself to her—becoming one with her. She could feel the pull of all it offered —she could see the memories it had taken from its hosts. The blood and murder was nearly enough to overwhelm her; she wanted to push the images away, but she had to accept them as Eddie had done—had to make room for the symbiote. She screamed and thrashed, but inside allowed herself to stay calm. She let the symbiote fill the fissures in her being, let it become

 _united, part of you, part of us, whole, complete_

one, but still separate.

The symbiote turned a poisonous shade of yellow, streaked liberally with the black of ash. Mary Jane's hair tumbled down her back, past her ankles; it flowed, growing like flame, alive and sensitive and twisting like thousands upon thousands of fingers.

They stood as one, and wrenched the security gate apart as if it were tissue paper. Even as she caught sight of Carnage holding Peter and Eddie, MJ felt the tide of the symbiote's former abuse threaten to stab at her psyche.

But if there was one thing Mary Jane Watson understood, it was being victimized. Neither she nor the symbiote liked that feeling of helplessness. They pooled their strength—the symbiote forging itself in Mary Jane's human strength as it carried them forward.

The strands of their hair slashed through the air, seizing Spider-Man and pulling him from Carnage's grip. Another slash of red locks sliced through the enlarged hand holding Eddie around the middle.

Carnage hissed, and faced what Mary Jane had become—what she was working so hard to maintain as the symbiote threatened to sink into its torrid memories.

They hated Carnage, but even as they strode towards her and seized every last inch of her body with the thousands of strands of their hair, they realized that she wasn't worth killing.

"What would it take to make you shut up?" MJ and the symbiote said, pulling Carnage close. "What would it take to make you _scream_?"

Their hair dove under the surface of Carnage's skin, and scream Carnage did. MJ and her symbiote, fueled by their rage, split through the red and black covering Carlie's skin as if it were the skin of an orange. The other symbiote splattered on the walls and fell to the ground of the cargo hold like mud.

Carlie Cooper squirmed, her terror rolling off her like a perfume.

MJ and the symbiote cocked their head to the side.

"So pathetic," they said. "So small." How could something so insignificant have caused so much devastation?"

MJ and the symbiote felt the severed bits of Carnage crawling towards them. They let their hair collect the pieces, absorbing it into them. Within the union of woman and alien, MJ felt herself screaming in terror at what she felt and saw in what had once been the foul beast.

But still she held fast.

With a snarl, Mary Jane and her symbiote tossed Carlie down the cargo hold like a piece of trash. Turning as the last of vestiges of Carnage sank into them, they saw Spider-Man and Eddie staring at them in awe and horror.

Mary Jane and her symbiote smiled, then made their way towards the spot where Eddie was still doing his utmost to hold his pieces of Venom together.

They lifted Eddie to his feet with their hair.

"Hey, tiger?" They addressed Spider-Man, staring at Eddie's handsome face.

"Y-yeah?"

"You don't mind if I give our boyfriend a little kiss, do you?"

Spider-Man swallowed down his shock. "By all means."

MJ and the symbiote grinned, and pressed their lips against Eddie's. Mary Jane let herself surrender the symbiote—let every fragment of it slip away from her and crawl over Eddie's skin. A wave of relief and exhaustion rolled over her; cool air caressed her body, the sensation nothing short of luxurious. She'd hated her humanity so much during all this, but as the last traces of the symbiote bonded with Eddie, MJ felt nothing but blessed relief to be a human being.

The symbiote pieces knit together, strengthening Eddie and coalescing to a single form. The black hulking presence looked over MJ, their strong arms holding her steady. Venom did her the courtesy of not letting the symbiote cover their face so that she was kissing Eddie Brock and not the alien he'd bonded to.

At last, bone-weary, MJ collapsed. Venom caught her in once strong arm and carried her to where Spider-Man had Carlie webbed to the floor.

"Boundary issues, this one," Venom said, handing MJ over. "She kissed us right in front of you. Can you believe it?"

"Completely," Spider-Man said. Curled against her hero as she was, Mary Jane could still feel how tense his body had become. Through half-closed eyes, she saw him staring at Venom, his gaze unsure.

Venom gently caressed the side of Spider-Man's face.

"We have to," they said.

"I know...just...make it quick."

Spider-Man let go of the web holding Carlie down. He scooped Mary Jane into his arms and walked her towards the cockpit.

"No!" Carlie shrieked. "You can't—you can't just let him kill me."

Spider-Man stopped, looked over his shoulder and stared at Carlie with nothing but the utmost hatred.

"Somehow I can't find it in me to care."

He walked MJ across the threshold. MJ, already weary, closed her eyes. She could hear Carlie screaming and pleading—could feel Venom's heavy footfalls as they drew closer. But she wouldn't look back; she'd soon too much bloodshed that day.

Still, she couldn't deny the chill that went down her spine when, at last, the screaming stopped.

* * *

Spider-Man gently sat MJ down in one of the empty seats in the cockpit. Her eyelids were fluttering shut, the exhaustion finally setting in now that they were out of the immediate danger presented by Carnage.

"Hey tiger," she said softly.

"Hey baby."

"We made it?"

He nodded, but it was half-hearted.

A moment later, Venom stepped into the cockpit. The black and white of their skin receded to the waist, leaving only Eddie Brock behind. His face was grim; having known what it was like to live with the addled pieces of the symbiote, Peter didn't need to stretch his imagination very far to wonder just how much it had taken for Eddie to have reigned in so much disparate emotion in so short a space a time. It spoke volumes of who Eddie was at heart—how strong he was—that he'd been able to bring the bits of the shattered symbiote together.

Eddie and Spider-Man looked at one another, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Eddie had killed, yes, but for some reason, Spider-Man didn't find himself repulsed or shattered. Carnage had been the most bloodthirsty thing he'd yet faced—she'd been thoughtless, completely disregarding any life other than her own. She'd taken so much, and now she was gone because of Eddie—because he hadn't wanted Spider-Man to bloody his hands.

His legs shaking, Spider-Man stumbled forward and threw his arms around Eddie, hugging him tightly, his whole body shaking as the weight of the last twenty-four hours hit him.

"It's okay now, baby," Eddie whispered. "We're okay." He gently lowered Spider-Man into the seat next to Mary Jane; then he took his place next to the hero, arm around his shoulders.

Spider-Man looked at the control panel of the plane; MJ cuddled closer to his body, and Eddie, in turn, held them both closer. All three remained silent, the roar of the plane and the rush of air around them almost soothing in its absolution.

The plane was flying on autopilot, but it wouldn't have fuel forever. And plummeting to Earth was an outcome that would only happen if they didn't crash into something else. Neither Venom nor Spider-Man could rescue them from this predicament—Spider-Man couldn't survive a fall from over thirty thousand feet in the air, and neither could Venom.

They would die. But they were together, the three of them. After every odd and obstacle, they'd triumphed over the heinous beast that was Carnage and had done so together.

MJ curled her head under Spider-Man's chin as they flew on and on towards nothing.

Suddenly the plane bobbed upwards, as if caught by a thermal.

Spider-Man frowned.

A moment later the plane dipped downwards, gently, smooth as if it were shifting altitude of its own volition.

The plane continued to drift, slowly hovering downwards until it disappeared into the clouds. It was as if some great celestial hand were guiding it...

Eddie stood and peered out the window beside him. He gasped; MJ and Spider-Man both sat up, forgetting about their exhaustion.

"Oh my god," MJ murmured.

Spider-Man laughed, relief surging through him. "Quite literally."

It wasn't just a god—it was a god on a flying aircraft the size of a football stadium.

It was Thor.

He stood at the edge of the airship, long blonde hair billowing in the wind along with his crimson cape. He held a hammer aloft, and Spider-Man knew at once that that hammer was controlling the alien winds keeping the plane on course.

The plane landed on the surface of the airship with a screeching bump. Mary Jane clung to Spider-Man, her legs shaking with the effort of standing. Once the plane had come to a complete stop, all three of them made their way slowly to the rear ramp. Spider-Man and Mary Jane pointedly averted their gazes from the remains of Carlie Cooper, choosing to focus instead on the freedom waiting outside.

Eddie opened the back hatch; he helped Spider-Man and Mary Jane clamber down to the surface of the aircraft. Bright sunlight bathed the gray landing strip; white fleecy clouds drifted lazily through the blue sky around them. Part of Spider-Man knew that something had to be keeping everyone on board—Thor and the agents now hurrying towards the plane—supplied with warmth and oxygen this high up, but at that moment, he didn't care what it was.

Thor moved with regal dignity towards them, his sky blue eyes on Spider-Man.

"You saved my life the night that Hydra attacked the Baxter Building," he said solemnly. "Now I repay that debt, Spider-Man."

Spider-Man smiled wearily.

Overcome with relief, Mary Jane raced from his arms, stood on tiptoe and began kissing every inch of Thor's face.

"Thank you!" She said over and over. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Thor actually turned slightly pink. Seeming to realize her folly, Mary Jane cleared her throat and stood back.

Commander Fury made his way between the phalanx of assembled agents, looking characteristically stoic.

"I'm sorry," he said bluntly. "We were doing recovery at the Baxter Building and we couldn't find hide or hair of any of you."

"Really?" Eddie said with a scoff. "In a flying machine built by one of your own—

"Tony has a habit of not wanting people to keep tabs on him," Fury said coldly. "It was only when the train crashed at Concord that we put the pieces together. Where's the other symbiote?"

Spider-Man nodded at the plane. "Dead," he said simply. A handful of agents rushed forward to scout the transport plane.

"If there's anything I can do for you," Fury said, "just say the word. You've been through shit today that would give Gacy nightmares."

"That's an exaggeration," Eddie muttered.

Chuckling, Spider-Man looked from Eddie to Mary Jane. They were alive—scared, battered and bruised, but they'd survived.

Looking Fury in his one eye, the web-slinger said, "We'd like to go home if that's alright with you, commander."

And so home they went. A small jet took them from the helicarrier back to New York City. The hurricane had passed, leaving a misty, drizzly morning in its wake. Looking out the side of the helicopter, Peter, freshly showered and dressed in a change of clothes offered to him by S.H.I.E.L.D stared down at the city that he'd once thought of as solely his. Trees had been knocked over in several spots, and several streets were now swamped in murky water that had risen from the flooding sewer system. But it was home, and one he'd never thought he'd see again.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. helicopter dropped him, MJ, and Eddie off on the street in front of his and Mary Jane's home in Queens. Peter had never found the sight of the little house with its faded exterior paint and chain link fence so beautiful as he did that morning. He ached all over, and the need to sleep was almost enough to make him cry.

But he was here; he was home with the people he loved the most.

They found the inside just as it had been when Mary Jane had left the previous afternoon to visit Eddie in the hospital; there were still dishes piled in the sink, and half a pot of coffee sitting tepid in the counter. The smell of the place was a balm to Peter's weary soul—home, comfort and so perfect.

He, Mary Jane and Eddie all walked in a zombified daze to the bedroom. Once there, Peter and Mary Jane collapsed to the mattress, not even bothering to pull the covers up. MJ rolled onto her side and Peter wasted no time taking her into his arms. The feeling of her warmth, the smell of her freshly washed skin and the sight of her was like a dream, only more sublime in that she was real, she was here, and she was still his.

Only, there was one crucial piece of the trifecta missing.

Eddie, dressed in the same navy blue shirt and sweatpants that S.H.I.E.L.D. had issued all three of them in the helicarrier, stood hovering awkwardly near the door.

He cleared his throat and said briskly, "Right then. If anyone needs me I'll be face down on the sofa."

MJ and Peter looked at each other.

"Did you hear that, tiger?" MJ mumbled. "He's trying to make a getaway."

"Shame," Peter sighed.

"Our Eddie is so adorable, isn't he?"

"Yeah. He certainly is." Peter reached over MJ, seized a web shooter—one of his trusty old web shooters—from inside his bedside table and fired a line. It caught Eddie in the middle. With one last burst of strength, he pulled Eddie through the air.

Eddie landed on the bed next to Peter, eyes wide. The symbiote had receded into his skin when he'd changed in the helicarrier. He was human; he was healed, and he was the strength and warmth that Peter and MJ needed when their own failed. He stilled for a moment as Peter shuffled both himself and MJ across the mattress until his back was flush with the front of Eddie's body.

Looking back, Peter met Eddie's stunned surprise with a lazy smile. He took Eddie's wrist, lifted his arm, and draped it over him. It felt like being under the world's warmest security blanket, and when, at last, Eddie relaxed, Peter let his eyes fall closed.

The last things he felt before sleep claimed him at long last were Mary Jane's heartbeat against his chest, and the gentle press of Eddie's lips on the side of his face. Then he drifted off into a long-deserved rest.


	24. Summer's End

It took a long time to heal.

The bloodshed and devastation wrought by Carnage sent shock waves through most of the East coast. Thanks to a well-organized press release from Tony Stark on behalf of The Avengers, however, in addition to eye witness testimony, Spider-Man was left relatively without any blame to shoulder. Still, there was no doubt that the recovery period—from the friends and families of those innocent people that Carnage had murdered to the clean up of Manhattan and Concord—would take months at the very least.

Peter stayed well out of it all, watching from the side lines as the police and Armed Forces doubled down on crime. He left the house in Queens only to go to work and go out for the odd pizza with his loved ones. Even then, walking into Horizon Labs felt like an immense chore. News of Carlie Cooper's actions soon spread through the building, and though some thought her a victim of yet another alien attack, word on the street was that Carlie had been fragile minded enough to snap of her own volition.

Though he did his best to put a good foot forward every day after the attack, Peter felt as if he'd seen outside the cave and could never return to how things had once been. Never in his life had he come so close to being bested by an enemy—never had so many lives been lost on his watch...never before had he stood back and let a human being be killed in the name of justice.

The first several weeks were, in short, a living hell. Many a night, he and Mary Jane woke in cold sweats, and that was only on the off chance that they could sleep at all.

Eddie out of the three of them seemed to have made peace with his demons—again, Peter pegged that down to Eddie's conquering and coexisting with Venom. He remained patient with Peter and Mary Jane, helped with menial chores and preparing meals. Whenever Peter was out—either visiting Aunt May or working late—Eddie would stay with MJ, keeping her company and standing guard against the memories that threatened to drive her to despair. Mary Jane, conversely, had taken to visiting Rio and Miles, as well as spending several nights at Aunt Anna's when things proved to be too overwhelming for her.

Those lonely nights and days could have been some of the worst of Peter's life—hours and hours would have been spent wasted wondering if the battle against Carnage had been the final straw that broke the camel's back for MJ. But again, Eddie's steadfast presence proved salvation. He talked Peter down from every threatening spiral, stayed up late with him playing mindless hours of _XCom_ and _Mario Kart._ And on those nights when sleep proved elusive, it was Eddie, taking Mary Jane's empty space in the bed, who coaxed Peter to slumber.

The summer wore on, hot and muggy after the battering storm that had threatened to undo the Big Apple. But New York City was a tough old broad, and her people had seen worse than a minor hurricane and a homicidal alien-human hybrid. Indomitable to the last, the Big Apple's pieces quickly fell back into place so that, by the beginning of August, life had returned to its normal chaos on the streets of the city; for Peter, Mary Jane and Eddie, the injuries they'd sustained, both physical and otherwise, began to heal. MJ finally stopped disappearing to Aunt Anna's—the light returned to her eyes, and the spring to her step, although Peter noticed she tended to tread far more cautiously than before. He himself no longer dreaded the morning commute to Horizon—no longer searched for the nearest balm to soothe his battered soul.

They began to build, to dream—to hope for a future together. Any and all clouds that had covered their lives after Carnage soon became just that—passing pieces that floated along, sometimes covering the sky of their life, sometimes barely thick enough to be noticed.

Labor Day weekend found Peter, Mary Jane, Eddie, Rio, Miles, Aunt May and Aunt Anna all on a golden beach in The Hamptons. Mary Jane's final check from _Les Miserables_ had come in, and she hadn't taken no for an answer from anyone. The fact that Aunt Anna had a cottage near the water with room enough for everyone had been enough to tide a still too-proud-to-ask Rio over.

The days had been spent in the sunshine, laughing and enjoying every last piece of food whipped up in Aunt Anna's extravagant kitchen. They walked through wild woods, stayed in and played mindless board games, and, of course, caught as many rays of sunlight and waves of ocean water as they could.

Peter sat on an immense _Game of Thrones_ beach blanket, watching as Mary Jane and Eddie ganged up on Miles and Rio in a game of chicken.

His senses prickled with the sensation of being watched. A moment later, a shadow fell across his lap. He looked around, and found Tony Stark standing several feet away.

Peter whistled.

"Surprised to see me?" Tony said.

"Just surprised that you appear to shop at _Abercrombie and Fitch_." Tony was, indeed, wearing hot pink Bermuda shorts and a pale blue Hawaiian shirt.

"What can I say? I don't like to make that much of a scene when it's for something important, but I still have a reputation to uphold."

"Did you follow me here?"

"I might have. I might also just be running into you on what was supposed to be _my_ vacation."

"Because you're definitely hurting for time off," Peter muttered.

Tony sighed, crossed the sand and sat next to Peter. He lifted his _Armani_ shades, looking out over the blue expanse of ocean and the people swimming in it.

"Water used to scare the bejesus out of me. Ever since _Jaws_...it's like I know that sharks aren't going to kill me unless they're really, really hungry, but still..."

Peter frowned. He didn't mistrust Tony Stark—after what had happened at the Triskelion, he realized that the Avenger was probably more of an ally than he'd thought. But in the wake of Carnage's death, the last thing he wanted was to introduce more trouble into his life.

"You did great," Tony said after a moment of silence. "With the symbiote situation, I mean. S.H.I.E.L.D lost a lot of good people, but they would have lost more if it hadn't been for you."

"Average citizens lost a lot of good people, Mister Stark," Peter said. "And I wasn't the one who brought the hammer down."

"You don't have to call me Mister Stark, kid."

"And you don't have to call me kid, Mister Stark."

Peter's gaze returned to MJ and Eddie—MJ, having toppled from Eddie's shoulders, was now trying to pull him into the surf with her, not that she was making very good progress.

They had been the ones who'd finished off Carnage; he'd simply been present, but if Tony Stark slept better at night thinking that Spider-Man had saved the day, then Peter wasn't about to go disabusing him of such a comfortable notion.

Tony chuckled, and then glanced sidelong at Peter. "How'd you like my suit?"

"It was great, yeah. A little tight around the groin, but great."

He'd left the iron armor on the helicarrier, the look he'd given Commander Fury telling of exactly what the man could do with the high-tech suit. It wasn't that Peter hadn't appreciated the upgrade—but there was something about Spider-Man that made him freeze like a deer in the headlights.

It was childish to be projecting all of the darkness and pain onto the mask of the hero he'd wanted to be just a few short months ago; Spider-Man hadn't created the evil in the world, after all. But to accept that responsibility once more was daunting. Who knew what he would invite in if he webbed his way around the Big Apple, even to stop a simple car jacking?

"You thinking of rolling out the vintage threads any time soon?" Tony asked.

Peter shrugged, too consumed with his thoughts to give voice to them.

Tony raked his fingers through his hair. "Guess you're not the only arachnid in the spider's nest anymore, either."

Peter fixed his gaze on Eddie, but still kept his mouth shut.

In the days following Mary Jane's return to their home in Queens, Eddie had taken to disappearing at odd hours of the night, coming back at the crack of dawn weary but with the air of one utterly satiated.

It didn't take a great deal of imagination to understand just what he'd been doing—the news reports of thugs gangsters and criminals found dead in alleys, escape cars and hideouts were enough to paint the picture in Peter's mind.

He knew full well that Venom had taken up the role of justice in Spider-Man's stead, and the symbiote wasn't as forgiving as the friendly neighborhood web-slinger had been. Venom was ruthless, cold and unforgiving. As far as Eddie was concerned, there were certain types of people who weren't worthy of a second chance, and Peter, if he was being perfectly honest, couldn't blame him in the least.

But Venom had been spotted several times, and the police, usually accommodating of Spider-Man's assistance, were wary of anything in the shape of an alien life form. With this new figure brandishing a bloody axe of justice, Peter and Mary Jane began to worry that Eddie would slip up one of these nights.

Peter felt Tony's gaze on him once more. Then, having grown tired of the silence, the man said in a forced airy voice, "We're not hurting for people on The Avengers presently. But Fury did fix the armor, and we could always use the extra help..."

Peter laughed. "Now we get to the meat of the conversation, huh? You're a real savvy business man."

"I didn't become CEO of my own company on dashing good looks and impeccable manners alone."

Peter shook his head, and looked Tony in the eye. "Thank you. Tony. I appreciate the offer. A few months ago, I'd have been doing back flips for it."

Tony grinned wryly. "But?"

"But no thank you. What you all do is tremendous, but I can't afford to have it be the center of my universe. I'm not itching to jump into those underoos again just at present." Although, truth be told, he was starting to feel the compulsion, what with Venom taking a bloodier stance against crime in Spider-Man's stead.

Tony sighed. "Allow me to give you some advice. Man to man."

"Golly gee, Mister Stark, I've always wanted your advice. You're my hero!."

Tony laughed. Then, becoming serious, he added, "Wait until you're ready. You're not the only one to arm wrestle with a costume, slugger. There was a time when I couldn't even look mine in the back of the head, let alone suit up. But I did, and the world is slightly better for it, and my love life is still in tact, so it wasn't as big of a Shakespearean tragedy as it could have been."

Peter played with a handful of sand, still watching the scene in the water. MJ had valiantly allowed Rio to climb on her shoulders so that the two of them could face Eddie and Miles in a battle of the sexes. Aunt May and Aunt Anna, having elected to stay safely on the beach catching some much-needed Vitamin D, watched with interest as Mary Jane slugged through the water towards the towering twosome of Eddie and Miles.

He knew that they wouldn't at all be distraught over his donning the costume again. MJ had, in fact, taken the suit to Aunt May to be stitched back together. Peter had found it several days previously, looking good as new, and had been tempted to wear it under his work clothes.

But again, he'd panicked at the last second.

"What if I never do?" Peter finally said. "Put the costume on again, I mean."

"Then you won't. Simple as that. It's not like you're obligated by anything other than your own code."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"It wasn't supposed to." Tony offered Peter a sad smile; Peter saw a million secret demons in the billionaire hero's eyes; this close, with unfiltered sunlight shining down on them, Tony Stark wasn't quite as good at hiding his age. For a moment, Peter had a strange flash of clairvoyance, seeing himself at Tony's age, with MJ and Eddie and everyone he loved and would ever love still by his side—and Spider-Man still being a part of him.

"I can give New York City Spider-Man because that's what I set out to do," he said, choosing his words carefully as the resolution came to him. "But the world—and everything else we know to be out there now—it needs The Avengers."

"Well, I guarantee we won't complain if you decide to swing by whenever things get too spicy for the pepper," Tony said. Peter expected the Avenger to be disappointed, even furious. But when next he chanced a glance Tony Stark's way, it was to find that he was watching him with a sort of paternal pride—as if he'd just seen his favorite nephew make a home run at a Little League game.

"How old were you when you got that radioactive hickey anyway?"

Peter blinked. "Uh...seventeen?"

"Try sixteen and a half. I looked you up when I started seeing the headlines. Just for research purposes."

"A middle-aged billionaire looking at pictures of teenaged me in a pair of tights. I am both flattered and disturbed."

"Anything sounds bad when you say it in that tone of voice. Point is, you're twenty-two going on twenty-three now. I was thirty-five when I got outfitted with the ARC reactor. Hawkeye was in his mid-twenties when he started getting bow and arrow happy. Banner was twenty-nine when he got dosed with the gamma. Cap was twenty-one when he got super soldiered. Thor is about a hundred billion years old, but he was born into what he has. And N-Ro...well, she _was_ younger than you, but she didn't start with the shooty-shooty gun-gun until she was eighteen."

Tony looked to the people on the beach and in the ocean as if he were missing out on something vitally precious.

"I'm not one for big words. Big words and me make for a piss poor margarita, you see what I'm trying to lay down here?"

"Got it. Tony. Big words. No on the mixing."

"You've been doing this a lot longer than most of us Avengers have been avenging people. And even if you haven't, we've still lived our lives up until we got tapped on the shoulder and settled into this superhero crap. If anyone deserves a precedent for making a choice, I'd say it's you."

Tony got to his feet. Glancing at the sand covering the seat of his shorts, he grimaced. "Next patent I'm working on is for trunks that don't give you sandy ass. In fact, I think I'll send that whip-smart wife of Bruce's an e-mail when I get back home. You gonna be okay, Mister Parker?"

"Fine. And, y'know...thank you Tony."

Again he smiled—genuinely, proudly…like a father. Then Tony gave Peter a brief salute and then walked into the teeming crowds on the beach, hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts.

Later that evening, Peter sat on the back porch watching the sunset; Mary Jane was curled on his lap, a thin fleece throw around them both to stave off the late summer night chill. Eddie was comfortably nestled at the feet of their rattan chair, nursing his third Shirley Temple of the night.

Unable to keep mum any longer, Peter decided to spill the beans.

"Tony Stark dropped by when we were at the beach."

MJ and Eddie both looked up.

"You don't say," MJ said idly.

"He wanted to know if I was looking for employment with The Avengers."

Eddie scoffed and sucked fished a maraschino cherry out of the bottom of his glass. "Oh is that all."

"I told him that I was happy with my current job."

MJ glanced at him. "Current job?"

"Yeah…I thought it might be time to give it the old college swing again. You know…just to see if it really does mean a thing."

Crickets were singing their song of longing, the frisson of their legs creating a dreamy subtlety to the already mellow mood of the night. The sun had already fallen behind the tall fir trees surrounding Aunt Anna's cottage, gold light streaking through the deep blue and green of the twilight sky.

Finally, Eddie sighed, rolling the stem of the cherry between his forefinger and thumb.

"Guess that means I'm going to have to clear out then."

Peter's heart gave a sudden leap of panic; MJ narrowed her eyes and prodded Eddie on the back of the shoulder with her bare foot.

"You," she said, "are staying put if I have to nail-gun your feet to the ground."

Eddie shook his head. Peter saw that some steely resolve harden in his gray eyes—that determination that always overcame Eddie whenever he wasn't prepared to take no for an answer.

"I know I haven't been exactly running an Eagle Scout outfit," he said, still staring into the denser trees surrounding Aunt Anna's cottage. His voice was shaking—it was taking everything he had to speak his mind, and Peter wasn't about to interrupt, no matter how much he wanted to.

"But I'm not giving this up," Eddie went on. "Call me selfish, but I really do like having the use of my legs back again. I like having my mind working properly again."

"Then keep a piece of it," MJ said hotly. "You're not cutting and running just because—

"I can't let it sever," Eddie said. "You know what that did to it, baby girl. You know more than Peter does, that's for sure." He met her eyes. Peter knew full well that they were both thinking of what it had been like to play host to the sybmiote when it had been fractured and torn by its many hosts. He didn't envy them this shared experience in the least.

But still he kept his mouth shut; still, he let Eddie speak his piece.

"I won't become your enemy, tiger. If you're going to put the tights back on—and you're at perfect liberty to, since this was your gig first—then I've gotta go."

"That's not going to happen!" MJ snapped. "How could you think—

"It might," Eddie said. "It's too big a margin. Think about it: two people out for the same ends but going about it different ways. That's exactly what caused mutant rights to go sideways for so long, thanks to that Malcolm X character with the metal fetish always butting heads with old Charlie Xavier."

Eddie met Peter's eyes, plaintive—needing him to understand. "I love you. Both of you. I love you too much to have the need to do good get in the way."

Peter swallowed down all the panic, confusion and anger that had been bubbling away in him when Eddie had started speaking.

"It's not going to," he said.

"Look, tiger," Eddie went on, "I know that you think that, but—

"People change," Peter said.

"You're saying you wouldn't go after Venom if we kept on busting skulls?"

"No. But I am saying that we can help each other. One of the many things, aside from a lifetime of trauma, that I took away from that monster mess of messes is that there's got to be a balance between everything." He reached a hand around MJ and coiled a finger around a strand of Eddie's shaggy blonde hair.

"You can do things with Venom I couldn't do with the original symbiote because you understand that, Eddie. You know that there's gotta be a little of this and a little of that to make a whole. Not everyone does. I sure as hell didn't. I don't want you to leave—nobody does. But I think it's high time that I slipped into that skin-tight suit before all the casseroles we've cooked up over this summer makes it a little tight around my midsection. And I don't just want you and everyone else who's helped me along the way to keep helping me—I need you to. You especially. You can do things I can't do, Eddie. Not just because of Venom, but because of who you are. You see things different than me. You keep me from being too much of an Eagle Scout, and I'll keep Venom from going full Aileen Wuornos. How 'bout that, big guy?"

For a moment, Eddie's face lost all pretense of strength; his lips parted, his eyes widened, so that he looked like a child told that, yes indeed, there was such thing as Santa Claus.

Then the moment was broken, quite suddenly, by Mary Jane.

She tore from Peter's lap, her green eyes overly bright.

"You two!" She said, trying, and failing, at keeping the emotion out of her voice. "I swear to God, you're both so _freaking_ dumb!"

Before Peter could so much as squeak in surprise, MJ kissed him on the cheek, turned and pecked Eddie on the side of his face and then stormed into the dining room through the sliding glass door. "Aunt Anna!" She called. "I need another sangria!"

Eddie cleared his throat, still staring after Mary Jane. "Crazy, isn't she?"

"Yeah," Peter said with a wry chuckle. "But I guess we all are, huh?"

"That's why I love you." Eddie met his eyes once more. "You sure it's not going to be a problem?"

"Not a bit."

Eddie bit his lower lip, the maraschino cherry still held between his fingers. At long last, he said, "I'll stick to murderers, you handle the other stuff. Deal?"

"Sure. And we'll leave the unfriendly ET's to The Avengers."

"Good." Eddie took a deep breath, casting around for something to detract from the immense pressure of emotion that had moved in over the back porch. "Hey, did I ever show you how I can tie the stem of a cherry into a knot with my tongue?"

Peter laughed, then sat back in his seat. He felt suddenly content, as if he'd just gotten his fill of the heartiest, warmest meal in the universe. It seemed almost unfair that he had everything he could ask for, especially after how his year had started.

That night, however, proved that there was still room for improvement. Long after the rest of the cottage had retired to sleep, Peter awoke to find the balcony door in his and MJ's room wide open. A cool breeze blew off the Atlantic, and through the gauzy curtain, he could see her, standing in her nightgown with her arms flung over the balcony railing.

Slowly, he crept him their bed and stood beside her. He felt the wind on his skin, and heard the crash of the ocean and a distant sound of whale song.

Mary Jane looked at him after several moments of silent observance. She smiled softly and said, "You have a curfew from now on. No middle of the night stuff, unless your chases keep you out. Deal?"

Peter chuckled, took her into his arms, and kissed her softy. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"I'm still figuring that out." Mary Jane stuck her tongue out. "But I'm not about to complain about a good thing."

"Are you kosher with Eddie doing his thing? You haven't really said a lot about it."

MJ nodded. "He's got a good heart and the right idea." Her gaze grew distant, and she rested her head against Peter's chest. "But Eddie doesn't know about what it's like out there the way you do."

"I don't know that I even knew. Sometimes I think I've been too soft."

"Not when it counts."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Let me spell it out for you "People like Octavius and Carnage were too far gone, tiger. But the beats on the street? I bet money that three quarters of them don't do what they do for the love of it. Look at my dad. The man was a monster, and I hate him for it every day. But he also had a screwed up childhood. There's something there—just like there was something there with you that made you put the mask on the first time. Only you chose to do good. That's all it comes down to. People make such a stink about motives and circumstances. But as far as I'm concerned, all it comes down to is what choice you make."

Peter sighed, playing with a strand of MJ's hair.

"How am I supposed to know what the right choice is, though?"

"You'll feel it in here," she said, pressing a hand to his heart. "You've got to trust yourself, tiger. You don't have an evil bone in your body. Neither does Eddie. He just comes at it from a different angle than you do."

"It could get him killed. The police aren't taking kindly to Venom..."

MJ sighed. "I know. But that's why you're going to have his back, right?"

"Right."

"And that's also why you're both going to listen to me when I think you're being stupid. Right?"

"Right."

She never failed to amaze him. It was only one of the many, many things he loved about her. Mary Jane was as vast and mysterious as the infinite expanse of stars peppering the sky over that little cottage; yet she always let him in—always showed him the depths of a soul she'd kept safeguarded for years. She was so unlike Eddie in that regard—Eddie, who for all his own turmoil and efforts not to, was like a book: filled with mystery and knowledge just waiting to be discovered, if only someone would look past the façade.

Mary Jane was a million different galaxies and undiscovered constellations in and of herself, and yet, she'd let him explore them. She hadn't run, even when she'd had every right to. And here, with the ocean abreast and the sounds of a still, summer night all around them, Peter truly felt as if nothing else in the world existed.

Gently, Peter grasped MJ's hand and traced a like down her ring finger.

"What size are you anyway?"

MJ stared up at him, her eyebrows raised. "I don't know...never figured I'd need to have the circumference measured."

"There's a jeweler in town. Wouldn't hurt to get it looked it. Y'know...in case you ever needed to know for the future..."

She met his gaze. Her beauty never failed to make his heart beat faster; her even more beautiful soul always filled him with wonder whenever he thought about it. And the fact that she was here, with him, after everything, made him believe that maybe there was something bigger and better out there.

"I'd say yes," MJ said softly. She cleared her throat and added, "To, ah, getting my ring finger measured...for future reference..."

Peter smiled and kissed her. For now, with all the scars of the past, they could still be happy...could still carve out that future they'd promised to build all those months ago on that stormy night when the symbiote have finally severed from Peter's body.

 **A/N: I must have revised this chapter about six times before I found an ending that worked for me.**

 **At the risk of having a long author's note, I'd like to say that writing this piece of continuation fan fic has saved my life.. I deal with some heavy things, but feeling the need to keep this going—for myself and for all the people who read it—has kept me afloat through some very dark times in the last year. Honestly, my mental health kind of bled more into this story than I ever intended it to.**

 **Also, I hope the whole Peter/MJ/Eddie thing wasn't too jarring. That was another whoopsie-daisie that just kind of wrote itself.**

 **Thanks so much for reading, and for all your kind words!**


	25. Epilogue

The young woman stared through a vast expanse of celestial darkness and light, knowing that something evil was looking right back at her. She wanted to move, to run and scream and hide, but she found herself frozen in place. As immense spirals of space dust towered and arched around her—as stars and comets shot through the never-ending ether, she knew that she was not alone in this sacred space. She stood along the great intersecting webs that tied realities and dimensions together, and knew that she was not alone-and that something malevolent was watching and waiting.

Suddenly, without any rumor of its appearance or approach, the figure stepped out of the spanning universe.

It walked along the webbing of reality itself, moving within the easy grace of a lethal predator. She could tell that it was ravenous, but also patient and utterly unfeeling—a combination that made it deadly. It looked to her like a human man, tall and thin with skin as pale as bone. Dark hair billowed around an angular face: thin, broad lips pressed into a severe line so that no milk of kindness of mercy could escape. And his eyes were dark red, almost black, glowing with the fire of an ember that refused to be snuffed out.

He stopped, fixing her with a stare far too confident in his own power to even bother deigning intimidation. He was far off, yet too close for any peace of mind; despite his distance, his intent burned like searing flame.

He stood on the webbing that connected each and every different plane of existence, balancing like a needle on the edge of a razor sharp blade.

A rent in one of the many pockets between the webbing open, and the thing in the shape of a man grinned and stepped into it. The reality began to bleed and scream at this intrusion, and the pain and suffering catapulted the young observer out of the world of the third eye and into her own reality.

She sat bolt upright, the covers of her small cot in disarray. Her skin was covered in sweat, her long strawberry blonde hair a mass of tangled around her face. Her heart raced against her ribs, and her stomach, filled from that night's hearty dinner, lurched and rolled at the palpable memory of the eldritch beast she'd seen in her vision.

A series of knocks on the door of her small, stone bedroom made her jump.

Hastily she got to her feet, covering her simple nightclothes with an ornate robe made of black and white silk.

"Miss Carpenter?" The voice on the other side of the door was low, resonant as a dragoon's but as warm and intelligent as a master of justice. "Miss Carpenter? What's wrong? I felt you screaming from the other side of the temple."

She opened the door and looked into the intense, concerned gaze of her master and mentor. Just as she made to tell him all that she'd seen and felt, he stopped her with a raised hand. He wanted her to utilize her powers with the techniques she'd learned here.

Nodding, she closed her eyes. She focused on manifesting all her thoughts and memories into a single strand, something that connect her and her teacher.

A pale blue spider web blossomed in the center of her forehead, iridescent and translucent as starlight. Her master narrowed his eyes, focusing his gaze on the web's center.

She felt him watching her vision, feeling what she had felt from the beast that walked between realities.

The master let out a breath, and the sound did little to comfort her.

After a moment, the man's jaw tensed. The connection broke, leaving her standing before him, feeling as if she were suffering a mild pressure headache.

The master ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair, the emerald stone set behind the gold, eye-shaped pendant and chain he wore around his neck swaying to and fro at the motion.

"Do you know if it's coming here, Julia?" He asked.

"Not yet, Doctor Strange." Julia looked passed him to the night sky over Kamar-Taj.

Somewhere out there in a plane of existence loosely tethered to her own, the beast was gorging itself on innocent lives…on very specific innocent lives.

"Do you know what it wants?"

Julia looked back at Doctor Strange. He'd been accepting of her wish to study the mystic arts after she'd made a pilgrimage all the way from England. He'd heard her life story with patience. At first, all the tales of her nightmares and visions and the strange phenomena that occurred all around her hadn't been enough to grant her admittance. He'd suggested a school in Westchester, New York, that helped "gifted" individuals.

It was only when she'd displayed her true power that the good doctor had taken her under his wing. He'd shown her how to do things she'd never thought possible even with all the gifts she possessed. He was indomitable—strong and intelligent, but rarely rattled by the mystical dangers that threatened their world.

And now he looked gravely afraid.

"Julia," Doctor Strange repeated her name, drawing her from her momentary lapse into memory and rumination. "What does it want?"

"To feed," Julia whispered.

"On what?"

Julia made herself look Doctor Strange in the eye as she spoke in a voice barely concealing the dread within her.

"Spiders, Doctor Strange. It's feasting on spiders."

 **A/N: Yeah, so the next and final story in this series is going to be about Morlun**. **I don't know when I'll start it, but it'll definitely be in the New Year.**


End file.
